


who is like god?

by the_maybe



Series: who is like god (michael shelley being alive and also aro) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (like a slow burn but with friends), Angst and Feels, Aromantic Michael Shelley, Gen, Michael Shelley Lives, No Romo Slow Burn, That's it, because i'm aro and i say so, but probably not much else changes. he just wants to get on with his life, but some of the feels are good, eventually, giving everyone the michael&melanie friendship you didn't know you needed, helen eats michael distortion and michael shelley gets to escape, lots of spiral flavoured angst and also season 3 flavoured angst tbh, set in season 3 but probably light spoilers up to season 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_maybe/pseuds/the_maybe
Summary: Michael opened its door and un-became that which he had become some eight years ago. The head archivist’s office was as messy as Michael remembered it being the last time he had been in there.“I, uh- would you mind putting that knife away, please? I’ve had a bit of a day, and I’m not sure a stab wound would much improve it.”
Relationships: Basira Hussain & Melanie King, Melanie King & Michael Shelley, Michael Shelley & Basira Hussain, Queerplatonic Dasira
Series: who is like god (michael shelley being alive and also aro) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138055
Comments: 106
Kudos: 134





	1. An Unbecoming

**Author's Note:**

> we love a pretentious title for a fic that is is so self-indulgent i don't care if not a single other person in the world reads it  
> i just decided that if i do not have more aro!michael in my life i will die. and because i’m trying to stop referring to michael’s Becoming as him being Spiralised. he’s not a fuckin courgette. oh also this isn't beta'd, my mistakes are my own.  
> also, there's no mention of aromanticism in this chapter, but he is aro, make no mistake, i just didn't get that far.

Michael opened its door and un-became that which he had become some eight years ago. His newly undistorted body walked through the hallways which had once been him. Or he had once been them? His was not to question. The body which was now just a body and not an existence wandered, and he had long since given up on the concept of time. Even now he was human. Or at least, mostly human. If you had asked him the date as his legs carried him in an all too un-monstrous fashion, he could not have told the truth, because he was in the Throat of Lies itself, and because he did not know the truth. It seemed that Truth still eluded him.

There was little comfort in the corridors that twisted; they were unfamiliar as ever. The last time he travelled them as Michael and not the Distortion, he had an incomprehensible map, but this time he didn’t even have that. If it didn’t want him to leave, then he could not leave. He couldn’t have hoped that it would release him, though. He wasn’t sure what world would be left if it did. Perhaps he wandered until the death of the sun, or the tearing apart of the universe. Could he still be walking these halls through all that?

In fact, he did not walk for that long before he found a mirror. The mirror showed him a person. The person tilted their head as he did, and lifted their hand as he did, and when he placed his hand gently on the glass it was warm. He could see a room in the mirror, and he turned to face the corridor he had come from, except it wasn’t a corridor anymore. He was now stood in a small room with a desk and shelves and cabinets lining the walls. He recognised this room. The mirror was gone.

The head archivist’s office was as messy as Michael remembered it being the last time he had been in there, as Michael Shelley or as the Distortion. The more things change… he pondered idly as he surveyed the stacks of papers and boxes and files strewn haphazardly on every surface. There was an empty mug on the desk with a brown ring of weeks-old tea in the bottom. He went to pick it up, but his hands were clumsy; he wasn’t quite sure where they ended and where the rest of the world began, and he knocked it onto the floor. It didn’t smash, but it cracked as it made a loud thud on the wooden floorboards.

He had not registered the noise coming from outside the door that he knew led into the Archives until it stopped suddenly. He froze. Muffled voices barely broke the silence, and Michael expected someone to come in any second and catch him red-handed. He reminded himself he hadn’t done anything wrong. Besides breaking a mug. He lowered himself to his knees, slowly and carefully, watching his hands as they reached forward to collect the cracked crockery, still trying to regain awareness of his decidedly un-distorted form. It still felt wrong though, clunky and delicate and too long and not long enough. He rose to his feet and took care as he stepped towards the door and braced himself for what or whoever awaited him on the other side of it and reached for the handle and-

 _Oh, not again-_ he thought near-hysterically and couldn’t keep himself from giggling. The irony of being caught out by yet another locked door in only a day was not lost on him. Wait- when did he start thinking of the time between the first door and this one as just one day? When did he start thinking of days? Was this a side effect of his Unbecoming? Where were all these questions coming from? Questions had not been something that the Distortion had concerned itself with. Maybe they came from existing in a stronghold of the Ceaseless Watcher.

Now that was a funny thought. He certainly existed now. As far as anything can exist, at least. He had never been so existential before the Distortion had been him. Michael wasn’t sure he liked that.

He tried the door again, just for the novelty of feeling it struggle against his grip and for the strange sense of panic it gave him, before he realised that the panic was coming from the fact that there were people in the Archives and that they might find him. And also from the door, but the two were warring inside him.

In his panic, he didn’t notice the voices stopping again, or footsteps approaching it from the other side, but he kept frantically fighting against the lock with increased urgency. He _needed_ to open that door.

It swung open towards him and he stumbled backwards.

“Who the hell is that?” a stern-looking woman in a hijab who opened the door said to the people stood behind her, a short, angry-looking woman with blue hair and a tall, nervous-looking man with soft pink hair.

Wide eyed, the man answered her, or addressed him, Michael wasn’t sure, “Michael?” he backed away, reaching to pull the women with him, but seemed to think better of it. “G-get back!” Michael still couldn’t tell if the man, who, now he thought about it, he did recognise, was talking to him, so he took another step back, hands raised slightly, although that was mostly in case he stumbled again.

The first woman turned to look at the man who Michael was beginning to think he had probably trapped in his hallways. The Distortion’s hallways. “You know this guy, Martin?”

“Th-that’s the Distortion, h- its name is Michael? There’s a whole bunch of statements about it, a-and it trapped me and Tim when Sasha- when the NotThem escaped and Elias killed Leitner.”

“Great, so how do we kill it?” the short woman grinned. Michael took another step back, but in his haste, he tripped, and the ground rushed to meet him. He flung his hands out behind him to break his fall and the cracked mug went flying. It did shatter this time and he even had time to flinch as he hit the wooden floor.

He looked up at them through a curtain of blond curls. The short woman now had a knife in her hand but the man they had called Martin was looking at him with concern. Or maybe fear, and a hint of concern. Michael opened his mouth. He wasn’t really sure what he should say. Maybe address the immediate risk of being stabbed?

“I, uh- would you mind putting that knife away, please? I’ve had a bit of a day, and I’m not sure a stab wound would much improve it.”

“ _A bit of a day?_ ” the woman in the hijab, which was a very pretty purple colour, repeated incredulously.

“Yes?”

“Martin, are you sure this is the same thing that trapped you? Because I’m not going to lie, I’ve seen scarier hamsters.”

“Basira’s right, I know looks can be deceiving and I’m not one to back down from a fight, but,” Michael believed her as the short woman gave him and appraising glare, “I mean- he doesn’t exactly scream ‘monster’ to me.”

“No, that’s definitely Michael,” Martin said, although he didn’t look entirely convinced, “Sasha met him, she said it could make itself appear human.” He chewed his lip, “I think her statement is around somewhere, but… maybe you could listen to it, Melanie? Since you uh, still remember her?”

Michael watched from the floor in silence and fiddled with his hair. He could very easily clear this up, if they’d believe him, that is. But he found he didn’t want to. If Melanie-the-knife-lady didn’t think he seemed like a monster, then she probably wouldn’t stab him, so that sorted out his first worry. What else did he need to worry about? They would probably like to know that their Archivist had been kidnapped by the Circus. Or possibly by Helen. Although that might increase the risk of stabbing, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Are you Michael?” the woman they called Basira asked.

“Um…” Michael wrung his very normal human hands, “Sort of?” _Damn,_ so much for convincing them he wasn’t the Liar. “My name is Michael Shelley. I was… fed to the Spiral’s c-corridors and the distortion became me. But it was tricked again, and i-it became… something else… and let Michael go. And now I’m here.” He ducked his head and realised he was still sprawled on the ground, so he sat up and crossed his legs. 

“Sorry, what?” she looked blankly at him.

“I don’t know? Sorry.”

“You’re saying that you’re the one with the doors that eat people? But the door ate you as well? How does that work?” asked Melanie. Michael laughed, and cursed himself for it, but the idea of there being tangible answers to questions regarding his Self was very new to him, and what else could be expected of him? “Something funny?” 

“No, I- well, yes, a little,” he began, trying to calm himself down, “I’m feeling a little, ah, overwhelmed, actually.” He wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling but there was every chance he was on the verge of tears. He didn’t really want to cry right now, but there were so many things he needed to explain, too many questions they all had, and he’d just had his being ripped apart at what he felt might have been the atomic level, and built back together, so really, he had every right to whatever it was he was feeling right now.

“Are you going to trap us in your corridors and drive us mad?” came Martin’s voice, hesitantly floating towards him.

“They’re not my corridors anymore. I’m not sure I could even if I wanted to.” Michael whispered, “Not that I do! And I don’t want to drive you mad, I hope I don’t, I really don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Martin considered him for a while. Eventually he said, “Would you like to give a statement?” The two women spun around to face him and started saying something very loudly and they seemed annoyed, but Michael closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him until they stopped.

“Michael?” said Basira, looking concerned. He opened his eyes.

“I just gave your Archivist a statement. Or Michael did? It wasn’t really me, although it sort of was… Something that was sort of me, and also not me, gave a statement. But that was before my Unbecoming, so I suppose I could give you another one,” he rambled.

“You’ve seen Jon?” Martin perked up at the mention of the Archivist, “Where is he? I-Is he okay?”

“… Um, yes? I have seen him. But I don’t know. Where he is, o-or anything. But I might be able to explain better if I give a statement?” His voice lilted up at the ends of phrases as if he had no idea if anything he was saying was correct. Which, he supposed, was true. He shuddered at the thought.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Melanie called as she turned abruptly and walked back into the Archives.

“O-okay… er, Basira? Will you, um- would you stay, please?” Martin wrung his hands and looked around the office, probably realising what a mess it was in there.

“Sure, do you wanna have a hunt for a tape recorder? And I’ll get rid of some of the crap on the desk.”

They busied themselves around him, Basira collecting up stacks of paper with no rhyme or reason, shoving them onto one of the emptier shelves, and some part of Michael clicked back into place and he stood up clumsily, collecting up some more of the files, somehow more carefully than Basira had and handed them to her when she turned back around. She froze. Then she blinked and carried on as she had been, if slightly more confused. Michael picked up the mug shards just as carefully, but a sharp edge slid across his index finger as he struggled to work out where exactly it existed. He sucked in air through his teeth as it broke the skin, and he thought about what it was like to have skin. And apparently blood too now. He held it up, transfixed.

“Michael?” Concern coloured Martin’s voice once again as he seemed to momentarily forget that he’d been afraid he was a monster just a couple of minutes ago, “Oh, god, are you alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Michael replied dreamily. Pain was pulsing from his finger, but it was about the only part of him he could feel with any real clarity. He hadn’t experienced anything like it in the Distortion. Pain, sure, but nothing so human, so small.

“Oookay, we are getting you some first aid!” Martin said quasi-cheerfully, pulled one of the boxes off the top of a cabinet in the corner of the room, and from it, he brandished a little green tub.

Michael did as he was told, still holding the bits of cup. Martin pulled up a chair and sat next to him, hands hovering over Michael’s, afraid to touch him, but he took a deep breath and took the shards and put them on the desk. He held Michael’s hand like it was a tiny bird, and ever-so-gently dabbed it with an antiseptic wipe. Michael didn’t wince, just watched in fascination. It wasn’t very deep, but Martin put a plaster on it anyway, which was nice of him.

“Alright?” Michael nodded. “Good. Are you ready to make you statement?”

“I suppose I am,” he said.


	2. Statement of Michael Shelley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay then,” said Martin, “Statement of Michael Shelley?” Michael nodded. “Recorded 4th of June 2017, regarding…”
> 
> “… The events that um, led me here?”
> 
> “Could you be more specific, please?” 
> 
> “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tma has only been gone a week and I’m already out of serotonin again rip me. I wrote a bunch of this with analogies and cool explanations, and then realised that this takes place before 111, when Jon meets Gerry and gets an exposition dump. So poor martin had absolutely no clue what the fuck was going on and I had to cut it. Hopefully I’ll be able to stick it in a little later? This has been a real struggle to write for some reason. Also, stammering mess martin meets stuttering mess Michael makes for A Lot of ellipses, dashes and commas. that’s just how they talk, what do you want me to do?  
> featuring: wild timeline speculation

“Okay then,” said Martin, “Statement of Michael Shelley?” Michael nodded. “Recorded 4th of June 2017, regarding…”

“… The events that um, led me here?”

“Could you be more specific, please?” 

“No.”

Martin frowned, “Fine. Statement begins. Whenever you’re ready.”

“You’re not as good at that as he is. It was easy when I gave i-its statement to your Archivist. I didn’t even have to think. Not that it thought much when I- when I w-was distorted. But, um, it gave a statement when- oh dear, there’s so much you want to know. O-okay- it’s not the beginning but I’m sure you’ll be annoyed if I don’t tell you that the reason it spoke to your Archivist is because I-” Michael chewed his lip, “I was going to kill him- but it didn’t! He was still- still alive when I was sent into the hallways. So you don’t have to worry. Maybe you should have been a bit more worried when he got kidnapped by the Circus? But that’s really none of my business. Anyway-”

“Hold on, what?” Martin interrupted, his eyes were saucers, “Jon’s been kidnapped? Did you not want to lead with that?”

“I- I _am_ leading with that.”

“No, leading with that would have been telling us as soon as you got here!” His voice got higher and higher. “Where is he?”

Michael frowned now, irritated, but when he spoke, his voice was measured and calm, “Believe it or not, Martin, I don’t know you. I don’t know the new Archivist, or you,” he gestured to Basira, “or that other woman out there. We aren’t friends, o-o-or colleagues, I don’t owe you _anything_. You were afraid of me, she-” she pointed at the door, “-threatened to _kill me_! My priority was that not happening, do you-” he laughed bitterly, “do you really think I could have changed your mind if I’d gone ‘Oh hello, I know I look like that thing that trapped you and your friend, as well as countless others, in my corridors, but actually when I tried that with your boss, one of my victims tricked me and I ended up being torn apart and trapped there instead, until I found a mirror that led me here’?” Michael breathed heavily. “I don’t know what happened to him after she got rid of me, he could be dead for all I know, or- o-or worse, and I’m sorry, I- I really am, but he’d been with the Circus for a long while before I got there, and they were going to skin him and use him for their ritual. If you want to be angry with someone, have you considered Elias?”

Martin went pale. He looked utterly distraught.

Michael looked down and fidgeted with his plaster. “... I’m sorry for shouting. I-I know you’re worried about your Archivist. And I’m sorry I tried to kill him a-and- and trapped you and your friend.”

A laugh startled both of them, “You call that shouting?” Basira raised her eyebrows at him, “Maybe we should get Melanie back in here.”

Michael giggled nervously, but then he heard Martin say, in a small voice, “When you say a long while… is that where he’s been this whole time?”

He winced. “I- Well, I couldn’t say for certain. Time works differently for me. Worked differently,” he corrected. “But I think- when was the last time you spoke to him?”

It was Martin’s turn to wince. “I- I dunno? Maybe- god, maybe six, seven weeks ago? _Christ_ ,” he rested his elbow on the desk, still sitting side-on to face Michael, and rubbed his temple, “was he really gone that long? And we-” his voice cracked, “we didn’t even _notice?_ ” He looked as though he were about to cry. Michael wasn’t sure what to do with that. Wasn’t sure if a hug would be welcome, but Basira didn’t seem inclined to react, so he settled for what he hoped was a friendly hand on his arm.

“It’s okay, I don’t think it was that long, maybe a few weeks later? And you- you didn’t know,” _Nope, do better, Michael_ , “you don’t have eyes everywhere, not like Elias does, a-and your Archivist doesn’t strike me as the most open type- you didn’t know his every move. You aren’t to blame, Martin, do you hear me?” he ducked his head to look Martin in the eye, “ _You aren’t to blame_."

Martin sniffed. “That’s nice of you to say, but I should have noticed. He’s my friend and I was too wrapped up in my own nonsense to realise he was missing. I didn’t even text him.”

“Right, well, this is nice, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’m going to try and find Jon,” said Basira. She got up and did a good job of hiding her discomfort at the scene before her.

“I’m coming with you.” Martin said, jumping to his feet.

“No, you’re not, you’re gonna stay and babysit blondie over here.”

Michael looked at her in confusion. “Babysit? How old do you think I am?”

“Twenty-two,” said Basira.

“Thirty-eight?” Martin said at the same time.

“Really? I’m flattered,” Michael giggled. 

They stared at him. Eventually Basira broke the silence, making her way to the door. “Okay, I’m gonna head off, Martin, you’ll be okay here? Do you want me to get Melanie?”

“Uh,” he looked over at Michael, who felt vaguely horrified at the idea, “no? No, we’ll be okay, I think. What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna get Daisy, and then we’ll go from there.”

“ _What?_ ” Martin exclaimed, “You can’t just set Daisy on him! She tried to kill him last time!”

“Yeah, so did this guy, apparently.” Michael’s head shot up at her mention of him, before he looked away sheepishly. Basira shook her head. “She’s not going to kill him, Martin. Don’t worry, we’ll get _your Archivist_ back to you in one piece. Skin intact, where possible.”

“That’s not funny, Basira.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but, um, you- you know the tape recorder is still on?” said Michael quietly.

“Alright, see you Martin… Michael.” And with that, she left, the door clicking quietly behind her.”

They sat in awkward silence for a few seconds.

“… Do you, uh, do you want to keep going?” Martin said finally.

“Sure.”

“Statement resumes then.”

“... I suppose now all that’s out of the way, I, um, I could begin at the beginning? The Distortion already told your Archivist that I had a- a friend who was taken by It-Is-Not-What-It-Is. That was a long time ago, e-even before I worked here. But Ryan, he was the reason I wanted to come here in the first place. What happened to him- I was… curious, I suppose. You’d know about that, though.”

“You _worked here?_ I don’t- but you’re- I mean, you’re not… human, you’re not-” Martin interrupted.

“Oh, no, I, um- actually, I’m not… sure… anymore. I was? Before I was the- the thing that... y-you met. And I know I’m not that now. But whether that makes me human? I’m not sure that’s up to me.”

“Oh. I- Sorry?”

Michael shrugged. “Would you like me to continue?”

“Uh, yes. Please, go on.”

Michael smiled gently, “Well, I started working here straight out of school, an unpaid sort of thing for a short while, but Miss Robinson took a liking to me, gave me a full-time paid position here in the Archives. That would have been… ’88? And Emma, that’s Emma Harvey, and Gertrude, managed to keep me in the dark about everything that goes on here for twenty years.” He laughed bitterly. “Probably could have kept it up longer, if she hadn’t fed me to the hallways to stop the Spiral’s ritual, The Great Twisting? I don’t know how much you know about that one, but I told your Archivist, so I won’t tell you now. Feels a little redundant.”

Suddenly, the door to the office swung open.

“Michael, would you come with me please?” Elias stood in the doorway, his suit crisp and his voice sharp, but underneath it was something else, that Michael couldn’t quite name, akin to surprise? Or perhaps even worry? Michael tensed, and to his surprise, so did Martin.

“M-Mr Bouchard-”

“Is there something we can help you with, Elias?” cut in Martin, with what could almost pass for a polite smile.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, Martin.”

Martin bristled at the dismissal. “Why didn’t you tell us that Jon had been kidnapped?” he blurted.

“Really, Martin, you’re doing this now?” Elias looked him up and down with such disdain Michael couldn’t help but squirm, even when directed at someone else. He’d been on the receiving end of that look before, he surprised himself to remember, and saw Martin flinch slightly. He felt strange… protective? And surprised himself again, by replying with an iciness he didn’t know he was capable of,

“What do you want, Bouchard?”

Elias didn’t manage to mask his own surprise in time to prevent the wave of smug satisfaction Michael felt in that moment.

“I’d like a word. In private, please, Martin.” He rolled his eyes as Martin stood up hastily, but Michael caught his wrist and gave what he hoped was a reassuring look, before releasing him and turning back to Elias.

“No one is going anywhere,” he tilted his head and smiled. It felt different to when he was the Distortion, and he knew the effect didn’t quite translate, but it was as close as he could get with his new-old-sort-of-human body. Elias’ face didn’t betray anything, but Michael could have sworn he felt a flicker of unease, and his smile grew wider. It was short-lived, though.

“Michael, I would appreciate it if you finished this up quickly, and then got out of my Institute.”

“Wait,” said Martin, “you said you used to work here, right? _Can_ you leave? I mean, if you’re not dead, are you not still technically employed here?”

Michael frowned. “… I don’t know,” he looked over to Elias questioningly, “I never officially left, did I? I can’t imagine I’d still be on the books, but I- I mean,” he sighed sadly. This was all he’d ever done, his whole adult life. And he _liked_ his job. And Gertrude was gone, and he knew all the secrets she’d been keeping from him… And maybe he could help if he stayed. “Can I- c-can I have my old job back?”

“Are you kidding?” Martin exclaimed, “Why would you _want_ to come back here? If you could leave, why wouldn’t you?”

“You want to leave?” Michael looked at him, confused, “Why don’t you then?”

“Yes, god, I’d- I wish I could- I wish we could all just leave and never come back, but we all signed those _bloody_ contracts, so now we’re tied to the Institute, we can’t quit. We’re stuck here- you really didn’t know?”

“No, I- I liked my job, I didn’t want to leave, I know Eric did, but he had his son, and then he died, and that was _years_ ago, probably not long after you-” he nodded at Elias, “-started here.”

“Does that mean that becoming… whatever you were meant you were no longer tied to this place? Elias?”

“There’s one way to find out,” Elias said calmly, “Leave now. And, if you don’t feel the pull, then you’ll know.”

“Hold on a second, we’re in the middle of a statement here-”

“Don’t be childish, Martin.”

“Don’t be rude,” said Michael before he could think better of it.

Elias’ looked at him, his jaw clenched, “Get out.”

Michael’s eyes widened, an old fear resurfacing, authority and rejection and anger, a need to please that apparently even the Spiral couldn't rip out of him, “Oh- no, I- I-I-I’m sorry, I-” it was at that moment, he realised he had nowhere to go.

“Get. Out. And don’t come back,” he said simply. Martin opened his mouth, but Elias turned to him and snapped, “Don’t even think about it.” He shrunk back on himself.

Michael got up wordlessly, gripping the desk for balance, still weak on his legs, and stumbled past Elias, into the Archives, ignoring Melanie as she called something after him as he walked up the stairs and out of the Institute on autopilot. Things looked different to what he remembered, but the layout was still the same, and he was concentrating on just getting away from Elias.

As he walked out of the doors and onto the street, he felt a warm breeze on his skin, and it was foreign, and yet painfully, achingly familiar. The street outside of The Magnus Institute hadn’t changed since the last time he had walked out, not knowing it would be the last time he would do so with his humanity still intact. The world had gone on as his had turned upside down, as he had been destroyed and remade and destroyed and remade again, as he had been twisted and stretched and unwound and unraveled and broken. Maybe he had no place in this one anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god the timeline gives me stress. elias didn’t join the institute until ’91 but Eric knew him (thank you mag 154, and yes i knew that off the top of my head), and should have, by all accounts, quit by then. there was also some overlap between Michael and Eric, which means Michael also had to work there before Eric quit in APPARENTLY 1991, I GUESS.  
> Anyway, Elias is freaking the fuck out cos he has absolutely nothing over Michael, bc it just occurred to me that Michael would be able to quit because _his_ archivist died
> 
> i hope you liked this, thank you so much for all your lovely comments last time, it definitely pushed me to get this one done, although it might be a *tiny* bit longer before the next chapter, since i decided writing two fics at a time was a good idea :)))))  
> 


	3. Finding your feet (at the end of your legs)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael tried very hard to calm himself down, feeling their deep discomfort. He didn’t deserve their comfort, didn’t deserve for them to take pity or care, but he wasn’t sure the last time anyone had, and that hurt even worse. He’d never been a lonely person; he had cared about his colleagues and his friends, and he enjoyed his own company too, but his colleagues were dead, his friends had grown up and moved on, and it’s hard to enjoy being alone when two complete strangers are either staring or actively doing their best not to stare at you as you break down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot say thank you enough for all your comments, I’m honestly beyond shocked that people actually like this <333333
> 
> anyway, angst incoming, picks up immediately after the last chapter and michael is Not Okay, so just be aware, he’s a bit dissociate-y, and full of regular human brand anxiety and Sad.

Michael sat down on the steps, long legs pulled up to his chest and arms hugging them tight. He let himself ignore the passage of time, which was nearly a comfort. His body felt strangely heavy and light at the same time, like he was made of magnets that all pulled him to the ground but repelled from each other. It was the exact opposite of what he had been: floating, untethered, but sharp. He found he missed it, because he couldn’t remember being human well enough to miss _that_. Maybe this was what it was like. He tried not to think. Thinking hurt. That hadn’t been something he’d managed to get rid of with the Distortion. Or perhaps it wasn’t a physical pain, and that was probably worse.

He knew he couldn’t stay on the steps of the Institute forever; he’d have to get up at some point. And go where? He was _tired_. The reality of what had been done to him seemed to crash down in full force. He’d been lied to and deceived and betrayed and then spent the better part of a decade hurting people to survive, and for what? To be dropped back exactly where he’d started, except with absolutely no one. He didn’t let himself wonder if he even wanted his old friends back. 

Once, Michael Shelley had been the sort of person who was optimistic to a fault. Was this what it had taken for that optimism to run dry? Had it been lost to the Spiral? Or did he just resent it now? Some part of him insisted that things would be alright in the end, and another part, a new part he barely recognised (or had he just pushed it down for so long?), was bitter. And he deserved to be bitter, he really did. 

Then he saw a figure in his peripheral vision, all the way at the end of the street. Maybe felt would be more accurate. Michael watched as they approached, the Archivist’s dishevelled form coming into clear view. He looked awful. _Of course he did, he’s been held hostage by the Circus for god-knows-how-long, in constant fear, while you’ve just been sat here moping,_ he chastised himself. The Archivist was hunched inward, taking up as little space as he could, eyes darting around, looking for danger. And he seemed to spot it as his eyes landed on Michael. They widened in terror and the Archivist froze, and then, just as quickly, a grim acceptance settled over his features. 

Michael was tired of being looked at in fear. He hated that there was a time when he loved it. And yet, the look he was faced with now was certainly worse. He hugged his legs tighter to his chest, and realised that he ached. What exactly were the benefits of having a human body? He sighed. 

“Are you going to kill me, then?” the Archivist croaked. Michael winced. 

“No. I’m just thinking. You, uh, you can go on in. Martin will need to let Basira know she can stop looking.” 

“… If you’re going to kill me… could you please get on with it,” he said wearily. 

Michael looked at him with a deep pain that wasn’t physical, exactly, regret mixed with guilt mixed with helplessness. He had no right to feel so bad, when the Archivist- Jon- had gone through so much pain, even though he wasn’t a monster. He had never killed people. Michael was a monster, he had done all those awful things, and he hadn’t cared. He might no longer be intrinsically merged with It-Is-Not-What-It-Is, but it was still _him_ somewhere in there. 

“I don’t want to kill you. You could Ask me if it would make you feel better.” 

“Things like you tend not to like it when I do that.” 

“Has that ever stopped you?” 

There was a long pause. 

“ _Are you going to kill me?_ ” 

“No.” 

“ _Do you want to kill me?_ ” 

“No.” 

“ _Then why are you here?_ ” 

Michael struggled for a moment, but he was too tired to try hard enough to keep quiet. “I don’t… have… anywhere else.” 

Jon seemed surprised at that. 

“You’re not _it_ anymore, are you?” There was no compulsion behind the words that time. 

Michael shook his head. 

Jon seemed satisfied with his response, though, and walked the rest of the way up the steps and into the Institute, leaving Michael alone again. He stood up after a while, joints and muscles creaking and protesting, and wondering if a walk would help at all, but he had no sooner got to his feet when saw two more people approaching. One of them was Basira, and the other was a woman with long blonde hair in a ponytail. He wasn’t sure if she meant to be so intimidating, but she was. 

He looked down, avoiding eye contact and hoping they’d go in without a word. He didn’t need to draw the attention of a hunter. Michael didn’t seem to be that lucky, however, as Basira spoke up as they got closer. 

“Michael? What are you doing here?” 

His first instinct was to lie, which, upon reflection didn’t seem like a particularly good idea. “I, um… E-Elias told me to, uh, t-to leave.” He wrung his hands and realised absently that he hadn’t done that since his Becoming. Maybe nervousness wasn’t intrinsic. He didn’t like that thought though. 

“What? I- Why would he do that?” 

Michael shrugged awkwardly, not quite sure how high his shoulders were supposed to go, “Once I-I might have suggested it was because he thought I was dangerous, that I pose a threat, but I think he just doesn’t like me.” 

The woman who wasn’t Basira snorted and didn’t bother to hide it. Basira’s gaze flicked over to her for a second “Oh. Are you uh, just gonna stay out here then?” 

He looked back at the Institute uncomfortably. “… You’re right, I should um- I should go.” 

“I didn’t mean you have to leave,” she said, not quite harshly, “Bouchard not liking you is probably a good thing, honestly. Not for you, obviously... Do you want to come back in? It’s not exactly like he could stop you. I mean, I know he killed Gertrude and that Leitner guy, but-” 

“He killed Gertrude?” Michael had known she was dead, but he’d never thought to consider the cause of her death. It hadn’t seemed that important at the time… 

Elias had joined the Institute in Artifact Storage a few years after he started working in the Archives and thus, they’d worked closely on a couple of cases. Michael had almost envied his laid-back attitude, and the fact he could get away with it. They weren’t exactly friends, but they had shared a certain camaraderie, both the youngest employee in their respective departments, at least for a while. Artifact Storage tended to get through employees like it was going out of fashion, but in a couple of years Elias had been working there longer than anyone else, and in a few more, he was the head of the Institute. Elias changed when he was promoted, told Michael to call him Mr Bouchard, which he resented, refused to speak to him except to give him orders, or tell him off for taking breaks, all in the name of professionalism. In anyone else, he might have believed him, or just called it anxiety, or stress, but not Elias. He’d once had a long-running theory that Elias had been possessed by a very uptight ghost. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’d seen. So, somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Elias was capable of murder, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be upset about it. 

“Yeah, you knew her?” 

“She was the one who made me what I Became,” he whispered. 

Basira squinted at him, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “Right… Are you coming in then?” 

Michael turned to walk back into the Institute and felt a blanket of dread settle on him. “Oh, your Archivist is already back, i-if you were still looking for him?” 

“This is the guy who showed up in Sims’ office?” the woman who wasn’t Basira interrupted before he could reply. 

“Yeah, that’s him.” 

She looked around at him. “ _This_ is the one that tried to _kill_ him?” 

“Yes.” 

She pulled a strange face. “Huh. Good on you.” 

Michael stared at her in shock, “Oh, n-no I didn’t-” 

“Hey, don’t worry about it, I get it, he can be a bit of a prick. I would’ve done it myself but this one stopped me,” she jabbed a thumb at Basira. Basira shot her a disapproving look. “In my defence, I did think he’d killed two people, and he kept asking questions the way he does, you know?” Michael was too surprised to do anything but nod in agreement. “Anyway, what’s your excuse?” 

“The um, the Circus was going t-to use his skin for their ritual and I-I-I didn’t… want them to.” 

She smiled. Michael wasn’t sure he liked that. “I’m Daisy, by the way.” She turned back to Basira, “I like him. But if Sims is back already, I think I’ll head off, don’t want to have to look at his weird little face.” 

Was she talking about him? Michael chewed his cheek. 

“Michael, are you okay here or do you want me to take you in?” Basira asked. 

“I- I don’t want to be any trouble." 

“That’s not what I asked, stupid. I already came all this way, I’ll just drop you off with Martin and he can figure out what to do with you.” 

_Oh,_ Michael squirmed at her wording. he told himself, but it didn’t make it sting any less. He let her walk him back in; at least if she were there, she could get Elias to leave him alone. An unpleasant voice in the back of his mind called him a coward, and he knew it was right. 

“Oh, you came back,” came Melanie’s voice from where she was lying on the floor on her phone. Michael may have described it as indifferent. “You just missed Jon; he’s having a chat with _Martin_.” There was something there that he couldn’t quite place. He looked to Basira to see her rolling her eyes. Did they not like Martin? He’d seemed perfectly nice when he took his statement, once they got past the Archivist being kidnapped. He’d even defended him to Elias. Although, Michael supposed he wasn’t exactly the best judge of character. A chill rushed over him. 

“How was your statement, Michael?” Basira asked, collapsing into a chair. 

“Elias made me leave before I could finish. A-Apparently there’s some confusion as to- to whether or not I can leave the Archives?” 

“Why wouldn’t you be able to leave?” interrupted Melanie. 

“Something to do with contracts? Martin said that since I used to work here, and I’m still, heh, I’m still a-alive, something in my contract would mean I’m… stuck here?” He combed his fingers through his hair anxiously. 

“You used to work here? Like _here?_ In the Archives?” Michael nodded. 

“Have you _tried_ quitting?” Melanie asked, pushing herself up from the floor to sit upright against a desk. 

“N-no, I- I told Martin, if there’s any chance I could still have my old job, I don’t want to risk it, a-at least until I can…” Michael trailed off as he hung his head, hair falling over his eyes again. His long arms rested limply at his sides as he blew out a shuddering breath and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to cry, but his shoulders jumped with the sobs he was holding in and tears fell anyway. The Archives were silent save for his shaking breathing and he could feel every pair of eyes that was on him. 

“Wow, Mel, add that to your tally,” Basira’s voice cut through the quiet, and after a moment she got up and he felt a hand guide him to an empty seat. 

“Sorry,” said Melanie, pulling herself into the last available chair, and kicking her feet up, “Martin’ll be back soon, he’ll probably make you a cup of tea if you want.” 

Michael tried very hard to calm himself down, feeling their deep discomfort. He didn’t deserve their comfort, didn’t deserve for them to take pity or care, but he wasn’t sure the last time anyone had, and that hurt even worse. He’d never been a lonely person; he had cared about his colleagues and his friends, and he enjoyed his own company too, but his colleagues were dead, his friends had grown up and moved on, and it’s hard to enjoy being alone when two complete strangers are either staring or actively doing their best not to stare at you as you break down. He took a deep breath. 

“So-sorry, sorry,” he said through tears, trying to sweep them off his face. It felt strange to touch his normal human face with normal human hands. “I- I must seem- y-you must th-think I’m so stupid. I just- I do- I don’t know what to do!” He rubbed his eyes furiously and looked up at them. Melanie picked at a pull in her jeans and Basira stared. 

“… It’s okay. There’s no point in worrying about it. If you can’t quit, you can’t quit, it’s not the end of the world-” 

“Until the world ends.” 

“Yes, thank you, Melanie.” Basira continued. “Do you have anywhere you can go? Friends you can stay with? Family, or a partner or something?” 

Michael shook his head. “No.” He watched as they looked at one another. He could tell they each were hoping they didn’t have to be the one to ‘babysit’. It made something ugly and hard and cold form inside him and he sighed, pushing it away. They didn’t owe him anything. “I’ll find a hotel or something, you don’t need to worry about me.” 

At that moment, Martin walked out of the office and walked blindly towards his desk until he saw Basira sitting on it. He searched the room for another free chair, when he made surprised eye contact with Michael. 

“Oh, I- you’re back?” 

Michael smiled awkwardly, his eyes still visibly red from tears. Probably. He couldn’t see them, but he was pretty sure that’s what they would look like if he was human. Which he might have been. 

“I was just about to tell Michael here that he could stay in document storage for a few days until he finds his feet,” said Basira. Michael looked at where he was fairly certain his feet should have existed, and there they were, right at the end of his legs, where they were supposed to be. That was new. He wondered how long it would have taken him to find his feet before he un-became. Maybe he never would have. It was a pessimistic way to see the world. The idea that he would never be able to find his metaphorical feet was like lead in his veins. He wondered if Michael Shelley would have still been happy if he had not been distorted, or if he would still be in the same situation, no family, his friends moved away, settled down, or dead, no time for him. He’d never been a lonely person, but the fear was always there. It seemed as mundane a fear now as it had then. He hadn’t been dropped from the jaws of one fear into another (even the Eye didn’t care to Look too hard at him). 

His attention snapped back to the conversation at hand, likely just in time to hear someone say something else that hurt. 

“He can’t stay in there, what about Jon?” said Martin. 

There it was. 

“What _about_ Jon?” asked Basira. Wait- was she defending him? 

“He doesn’t have anywhere to go.” 

“Wasn’t he staying with Georgie?” said Melanie, with a hint of ice to her voice, although Michael couldn’t work out why. 

“He said he can’t go back there.” 

“Why not? She finally got sick of him?” Melanie asked. 

“Look, Jon’s never here, and it’s not like he ever sleeps anyway. Let Michael have the cot,” insisted Basira. 

“He was kidnapped!” 

Michael shifted uncomfortably. They were arguing over him. Martin was right, Jon deserved to stay here more than he did, and Basira was only disagreeing because she pitied him. None of them _wanted_ him there. 

“Martin,” Basira said firmly, “did Jon actually ask to stay here, or are you just hoping he will so you can keep an eye on him?” 

Martin ground his teeth. “… Fine, do what you like. You can be the one to tell Jon.” 

Hot guilt unfurled in Michael’s stomach as Martin turned on his heels and walked out of the Archives. Martin had seemed the friendliest of all of them, and even _he_ didn’t want him around. 

“I should- should go after him. O-or let your Archivist stay here instead of me, it’s not- it’s not f-fair for him to leave on my account.” 

“Shut up, you’re staying,” said Basira, then she turned to Melanie. “I take it you didn’t manage to kill Elias then?” 

Michael choked at the abruptness with which she changed the subject. 

Melanie rolled her eyes, “Nope. Jon was in there, I’ll have to try again next time he’s out.” 

“You tried to kill Elias?” Michael squealed. 

“Yeah, why, do you want to help next time?” she said nonchalantly. 

“What? N- why do you want to kill him?” 

“Just trying to get out of here.” 

“Y-you think he has something to do with-with you, um… not being able to resign?” 

“I know he does, the smug bastard-” 

“Are you forgetting the whole ‘beating heart of the Institute’ thing?” interjected Basira, “Just because you don’t mind dying for the cause, doesn’t mean all the rest of us feel the same.” 

“Sorry, the _what?_ ” Michael stared wide eyed at the two of them. 

“Elias dies, we die-” explained Basira. 

“Or so he says,” Melanie argued. “Need I remind you, he has a vested interest in not dying?” 

“Yeah, and I do too.” 

“It doesn’t matter anyway, because I didn’t kill him,” Melanie said bitterly. “Michael.” She spun on her chair to face him. “Do you want to help me murder our shitty boss n-” 

“You can’t just say stuff like that about Jon, Mel,” Basira deadpanned. 

Michael barked a sudden laugh and then slapped his hand over his mouth as though he hadn’t expected to make that sound at all, which he hadn’t. He didn’t recognise it as his own laugh anymore, but as he covered his mouth, the sound stopped, so it must have been him. They looked at him, stunned, and Basira’s mouth flickered into a smirk, while Melanie burst into loud peals of laughter. _Oh._ He giggled, slightly nervously, but not _from_ nerves this time, his hand still in front of his mouth. He wasn’t sure if that was a self-conscious habit from before something else was him, or after, but he wasn’t thinking about that. Basira rolled her eyes with a smile and Melanie was now in near-hysterics, which filled him with such a warm feeling, he forgot to be nervous for a minute, and Michael just laughed with her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had to give poor michael a sappy end to the chapter for once, couldn't help myself, he deserves it  
> i wrote the first part of this chapter as soon as i published the last one. like, fully it could have gone out less than 12 hours later, but it was short, so i decided to write some more, cos it was too depressing and i wanted a bit of comfort and then i couldn't stop. i did not expect this chapter to end up like this At All though.  
> and i feel like people are here for aro michael (i know i am) which i had not at that point delivered on.
> 
> also... i was rereading mag 106 and melanie canonically made both martin AND tim cry, i love this


	4. What, romance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s just not really my thing, but don’t you think people go on about it a lot?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been a hot second, thank you all so much for reading and for your comments and kudos i'm having so much fun and i'm glad anyone's enjoying it  
> i told myself this would just be like 5 chapters and now this is the fourth and i’m nowhere near done AND i have a bunch of thoughts i wanna write bc i cannot stop thinking about michael's goddamn backstory ;-;
> 
> cw for mentions of mild aphobia/homophobia from a parent

Jon came out of his office. Melanie stopped laughing immediately to glare at him, but the laughter continued. Then Michael realised it was him still laughing, and he stopped too.

Jon stared at them uncomfortably. “Uh, I-I’m- I was just, uh- I have some things I need to do so, um… if you wouldn’t mind letting me know if you find anything new? Please? A-And I’ll do the same.”

“Giving poor Michael jobs to do already, are you?” said Melanie bitterly. 

“O-oh, I didn’t- of course not, I-” Jon looked startled and turned to face Michael, “Are you… I mean, I assume you’re sticking around for a while?”

Michael gave him a small sort-of-smile. “If that’s okay? I don’t want to… get in your way or anything.”

“Not- not at all, I won’t be here much anyway, I don’t suppose… Although, i-it might be best if you don’t stay too long, we wouldn’t want Elias trying to recruit you or something…” Jon tailed off, not quite managing a light-hearted tone.

“… Jon, take care of yourself, alright?” said Basira eventually, “And keep in touch, just in case.”

“I- I will, thank you, Basira.” Michael watched as his hands clutched the hem of his t-shirt, and he rubbed the material between his fingers, and he mirrored the gesture unconsciously and then noticed what he was actually wearing.

He looked… scruffy.

Michael Shelley had always prided himself on dressing well, he liked to look tidy and put together. He ironed and hung up all his clothes and planned his outfits and stuck to complimenting colour schemes. He bought things that were good quality and repaired and altered them when they needed it (which they often did because he was very tall) and donated anything he didn’t wear. Everything he owned was comfortable but not too flashy, smart, but not overly so, just clean and neat and well-fitting. These clothes were not like that. His shoes were scuffed, and his socks didn’t match, his trousers were rough and patterned in a way that made his eyes hurt, his shirt was garishly coloured cheap polyester, and his cardigan was stretched and pilled. Michael tried very hard not to react to this, but it was overwhelming all over again. He looked up to see Basira and Jon now speaking quietly in the doorway, and Melanie staring at him again.

“ _What?_ ” he asked harshly, much louder than he had intended to. Basira and Jon looked over in shock. Michael felt his cheeks get hot, “Stop _staring_ at me!” He could feel their eyes on him, and The Eye too.

“Sorry,” said Melanie, not sounding particularly sorry, “you just looked a bit freaked out. Are you alright?”

He barely considered his answer before it left his lips, “No, actually, not really.”

“Oh, god, you’re not going to cry again, are you?”

“-Again?!-”

“-Mel, come on-”

The others spoke over each other while Michael tried to come up with an appropriate response, but mostly just succeeded in frowning as far as he could remember how to, until Basira said,

“Would you like me to show you the cot in document storage? It’s climate controlled or something, so it’s pretty secure.”

“Y-yes, I know,” he said tiredly, “but sure, okay.” Michael let himself be guided through the Archives, which he knew like the back of his hand, to document storage, which he also knew like the back of his hand. He decided that was an accurate expression because, like the back of his hand, he had once known these places very well, and now all he knew was that he _should_ recognise them, but knowing objectively that something should be familiar is not the same as it actually _being_ familiar. He looked at his hand and his hand was there, but it could have been anyone’s, really; it didn’t move in the way he expected, it was too close and too small and he remembered the cup he knocked over because he hadn’t remembered quite how to be spatially aware yet.

Basira showed him into the room and he folded his knees up so that he was perched on the cot, which was barely two feet off the ground, and probably not long enough to hold his feet and his head at the same time. He didn’t remember it being there when he was working for Gertrude, but he distantly recalled it existing during the Prentiss attack, which was probably some time ago now, he supposed, although his memories from the existence as the Distortion were even more confusing than his days before Becoming.

“There’s a whole bunch of clothes in here, mostly Martin’s I think, and some of Jon’s… Probably other people’s too, but feel free to have a dig round and see if you can find anything to change into. If it’s been left here, its previous owner probably doesn’t care who borrows it. And if they do, tough, they should have thought about that before dumping it.”

Michael smiled. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me stay and for not, I don’t know, kicking me out? You- you don’t need to defend me, you know, you and Melanie, both. I- appreciate you sticking up for me, but it-it’s really not necessary.”

“No offence, but you don’t seem to be doing much sticking up for yourself.”

He laughed humourlessly, “My grandmother used to say to me ‘Let it not be said that Michael Shelley has a backbone’. To be honest, I never found talking back to do much good, it was always easier to be a doormat. Until you get fed to the door, of course.” Michael looked at her with his head tilted to one side and then looked away again. “And apparently I couldn’t leave anyway, so the only think fighting back would have done was make my life harder.”

“Hmm, a man after my own heart. Not one for confrontation, I take it?” Basira asked lightly, “You might have a bit of a challenge. Most people here are up for a fight most of the time, if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

“… Like what?”

“Talking about Jon, mostly. You can’t complain about him in front of Martin, and you can’t defend him to anyone else. Probably safer not to mention him at all if you can help it.”

“You don’t like him?”

“He’s alright,” she said, “I’ve known him about a year, a bit weird, he seems harmless enough, but I know Daisy doesn’t trust him. Neither does Tim. I think he and Melanie just rub each other the wrong way, though.”

“And Martin?”

Basira snorts and puts her hands up, “I’m saying nothing, it’s none of my business.”

“Oh,” _Oh_ , “o-okay then.”

“What, that’s it?” she laughed, “Wow, you really do take the doormat thing to heart. You can’t tell me you’re not curious if you worked for a place like this.”

“You said it yourself, it’s none of our business. And even if it was, I really don’t care. If people want to keep their romantic lives private, I’m more than happy not to hear about it.”

“Huh,” Basira considered him for a moment. “You don’t strike me as the bitter type.”

“I’m not, it’s just not really my thing,” Michael felt his ears heat up and hoped she’d drop it, “but don’t you think people go on about it a lot?”

“What, romance?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Well that’s fair. I can take it or leave it myself.” Basira laughed. “When I first came here, everyone was convinced me and Jon were _involved_. Drove me up the wall.”

Michael released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and let out a quiet chuckle. “That sort of thing always used to drive me c- it always annoyed me.” He thought back again to his life before, and was reminded of the familiar feeling. “Heh. I’d get that all the time, cos I mostly had friends who were girls. I think… my dad was torn between hating that, because,” he gestured at himself and shrugged, “and worrying what would happen if I so much as _looked_ at a boy.” Michael laughed a strange laugh, somewhere between humourless and genuine. “And, I mean, this was the eighties, so I know he was just looking out for me, y’know? But he just wouldn’t take my word that I wasn’t interested.”

“Sorry, the eighties? As in you were a kid in the eighties, or-”

“Oh, no I- wait, did you really think I was twenty-two?”

Basira didn’t reply. Michael smiled without thinking about it.

“What about you?” he asked eventually.

“Me?”

“Anything I should avoid mentioning so as not to start a fight? I think you’d probably win, so...”

She laughed. “As long as you’re not trying to start a fight, I think we’ll be okay.” Michael nodded sincerely. When was the last time he’d been able to do anything sincerely? “Hey, listen, it’s six o’clock so I should probably get going, are you gonna be alright here?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.”

The lie came easily.

Lying came much more easily than he would have liked.

It was a familiar warmth and Michael hated it. Michael had always hated it. He knew that none of that showed on his newly human face, and the smile that he gave looked sincere, and Basira could never know that it was not. She left and he felt pins and needles all over his body, like the memory of being what he was not, another creature squeezing into his skin- into his soul. It hurt so much he could hardly move, as though he were being physically prevented from correcting the lie or punished for telling it in the first place. He thought about her disappointment if she knew he had lied, the guilt she might feel if he asked her to stay, and how happy they had been just a minute ago. He dragged himself, aching, to the door and pulled it open, calling after her. She and Melanie stared at him.

He drew himself up to his full height as best he could, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that shot through every layer of him, every square inch, “I lied,” he forced the words out, “I- I’m sorry, y-y-you don’t have to stay, but I d-don’t think I’ll be alright… here… on my- o-on my own.” He didn’t let himself apologise again.

The Archives were silent, and the two women exchanged glances. Michael couldn’t bring himself to be hurt, even as his physical pain had begun to subside as quickly as it had appeared.

“I’ll stay,” Melanie said, almost cheerily. Michael decided that if she’d managed cheeriness, it would have been false, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind either when she continued, “I was going to stay anyway, couldn’t be arsed with the tube,” even though he knew that was a lie too. They all knew it was a lie, and so it didn’t burn, because if everyone knows a lie is a lie, is it really a lie, or just a truth in a different costume? And it was a kind sort-of lie. Did that make a difference? He supposed if it didn’t feed the fear of falsehoods, and it didn’t cause his skin to feel like it was on fire, it was probably okay. “I’m not sleeping on that fucking cot though; I don’t know when anyone last washed those blankets, and frankly, I don’t want to.”

Michael blinked. “Oh. Okay then.” He didn’t ask if she was sure. He knew with strange certainty that she wouldn’t have offered if she wasn’t.

“We can get some food delivered if you like. You’re welcome to join us, Basira.”

“I would, but Daisy’s coming over and she said she’d cook,” Basira shrugged.

“I _do not believe_ Daisy can cook, are we talking about the same person? Scary, blonde, strongest arms you’ve ever seen in your life?”

“Sorry, Mel, you’re not her type,”

“I think you’ll find I am a delight.”

Basira raised an eyebrow. “And yet…”

“Well,” Melanie spluttered in mock indignation, “I- I rescind my invitation to join us for pizza!”

“How will I cope.” She said, and rolled her eyes. “I will see you two tomorrow.”

“Bye, Basira,” Michael looked at her, and added quietly and sincerely, “Thank you.” She nodded and turned away to go.

“Try not to have too much fun without us!” Melanie called after her as she left. “So, pizza then?”

“I don’t-”

“If you say you don’t mind just to be polite, but you actually do mind, I’m gonna order it to spite you, you know that, right?”

Michael stared. “Is, um- is the place around the corner that puts chips on the pizza still open?”

“Oh! Yeah! You want to go there?”

“Erm, I don’t… have any, um, any money…”

Melanie pulled a face that he couldn’t read and opened her mouth, then closed it again. She sighed. “That’s fine, it’s on me.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him, “You can pay me back.”

Michael visibly relaxed, and Melanie got up, smiling a little, and nodded, beckoning him to follow her.

The walk to the takeaway was quiet. Melanie didn’t talk and Michael kept his eyes on the pavement, his arms hugged across his chest. It was busy inside, but they agreed that Michael would be better off not coming in, the words ‘reintegrating back into society’ were uttered, as were ‘keeping watch in case of weirdos’, and ‘don’t run off, I mean it, I’m not coming to find you if you get spooked by a passing car or something’. Michael had not been trusted to carry the pizzas Melanie came out with, so he carefully held a large bottle of water which she had bought ‘because it’s cheaper and germs aren’t real’. He decided that she was probably joking about the last part and laughed, which was apparently the correct response because she didn’t seem angry.

When they reached the corner, she led them in the opposite direction, not offering an explanation when he voiced his confusion, but soon enough they reached a small park and Michael held the iron gate open for her.

“At least one bloke in this place has some manners,” she said with the genuine cheeriness that her earlier words had lacked.

“I’ve been i-instructed not to bring up your Archivist, so I’m not going to ask,” he replied, and she laughed properly that time. They sat down on a rusty bench, and a moment later as she dropped one of the pizza boxes into his lap, she asked,

“Why do you keep saying that, ‘ _our archivist_ ’?”

“He isn’t my Archivist,” Michael answered simply. “My Archivist is dead. Murdered, can you believe…” He laughed again, the same strange, not-quite-happy laugh as earlier.

“And that makes a difference, does it?” Melanie frowned, “Most people just call him _the_ Archivist, not like… mine specifically. Not that that’s any less weird.”

He looked around at her thoughtfully. “I… Yeah, I think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah! finally delivering on the aro content i promised!  
> turns out i’m a slut for alliteration, and you can pry it from my cold dead hands <3 your english teacher would either love me or call it lazy writing, and i do not care which.
> 
> anyway, can i tempt anyone to a little arospec basira? ngl i see dasira as more of a QP kinda deal and daisy is aspec (me when anyone says a relationship won’t be explicitly confirmed as romantic: it’s free real estate)
> 
> edit: it occurred to me that this chapter takes place during Ramadan so basira would likely have been fasting. i am Holding Myself Accountable so i didn't want to just ret con it into the chapter, but i thought i'd mention it since it was actually relevant :)


	5. Archival assistants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, I suppose I’m here to offer you your old job back,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i usually wouldn’t apologise for a late update, but this time i really have no excuse bc i started listening to rusty quill gaming just before i finished the last chapter and have not stopped (until like 5 days ago when i caught up, so this is actually now a love letter to lydia nicholas. is it impacting my characterisation of melanie? probably). and then i had to move back to uni which is a Whole Thing.
> 
> anyway, i have no idea if i actually like this chapter, but here we are. thank you all again for your very lovely comments they make me very very happy <3

After they ate, Michael changed into the most comfortable clothes he could find in the Archives that fit him. His options were limited, and Melanie had decided to stay in that day’s clothes rather than borrow something. He couldn’t imagine sleeping on the floor fully dressed was particularly comfortable, but she assured him she’d slept in worse places. Or at least, more physically unpleasant places. She didn’t elaborate except to say that there weren’t many places worse than the Archives, and Michael felt an awkward guilt bubble up inside him and tie his stomach up in knots for making her stay with him.

He’d been on edge all evening, half-convinced that Elias would walk in at any second, but while Michael was sure Elias was still in the building, they’d been lucky enough not to cross his path again. Even as he curled up on the cot, he worried for what felt like hours, unable to sleep despite the tiredness that sunk down to his bones. Occasionally his head would spin as sleep tried to claim him and he’d jolt awake, and by the fourth time this happened, he was choked by tears of despair that he held in tightly, so as not to wake Melanie.

He slept lightly, barely at all, and by the time he heard Melanie get up, he decided to cut his losses and join her.

“Hi,” she said, seeming impressively alert for someone who’d been asleep a second ago, “I’m going to get a quick shower,” she looked him up and down, “and then Basira should get here in-“ checked her watch, “-an hour or so, so we’ve got time.” Unspoken was the agreement they had both arrived at the night before: to stick close together, lest they be caught alone by Elias. It felt strange to Michael how close two people who knew next to nothing about each other could become by necessity, the mutual understanding that they were in the same storm, so they might as well share a boat, and he found himself grateful for the first time that it wasn’t Gertrude or Emma he was stuck there with.

They didn’t speak much about anything, but she put a podcast on to keep the silence at bay and they each occasionally paused it to interrupt with commentary and facts they’d picked up in their combined years of ghost hunting. They stayed in close proximity, hardly leaving one another’s sight, and when Basira arrived and Melanie got up to leave, he almost followed her.

Basira talked even less than Melanie, so instead he deposited himself in front of a computer and discovered his login detailed still worked. His happiness at this fact was short-lived, however, when he realised what that might mean. He looked up and instead of Basira sat at another desk, he saw Elias.

Michael was frozen in place.

Elias looked much the same as he had the last time Michael had seen him, a little older around his unpleasant eyes and mild smirk, his hair just perceptibly thinner, but every bit of him as sharp as Michael had ever known him to be.

At least he knew why those eyes unsettled him so much now.

When they had first met, Elias had dark blue eyes, the sort that you might not even guess were blue if you weren’t paying attention. Now they were the clear sort of blue that sometimes comes with age. Piercing was the wrong word. His eyes cut through Michael like a butter knife through steak, and it hurt. A prickling needle would barely have been noticed. Elias was trying to untangle what could not be untangled.  
Michael squeezed his eyes shut against the onslaught and let his mind be snapped and torn, only, seconds later, it stopped.

Distantly, behind his ragged breathing, he heard Elias sigh in frustration, but he kept his eyes shut, half-terrified it would happen again the moment he let his guard down, or perhaps even before, like he was being drowned, with not enough time to catch his breath before he was plunged under the water again. It didn’t happen again though. He could still feel the Eye- Elias’ Eyes on him, still feel his presence in the air before him.

“What do you want?” he whispered weakly.

“Well, I suppose I’m here to offer you your old job back,” came the cold reply.

“I thought you-” Michael began without a thought. _Wait, why- what’s going on?_

Before he could continue, Elias interrupted, “Now, I’m sure you’ll need help getting back on your feet after what Gertrude did to you,” he said pointedly, “and I’m sure you’ll find it much easier getting back into your position as an archival assistant than,” he gesticulated calmly, as if searching for a the correct phrase, but Michael knew this was an affectation, not a genuine gesture; he could taste the falsehood in the air, “having to find a new one after all your time… away.”

“Erm, M-Melanie said I couldn’t leave. She said once you work here you can’t quit. I don’t- don’t want to be stuck here forever,” he said unconvincingly.

Elias looked at him sympathetically. “And you believed her? Oh, you did… Well, would it make you feel better if I told you that she was wrong? You’d be able to leave if you wanted, you don’t have to be tied to this place like them.”

Michael searched his face, his voice, his body language, anything, for the hint that he was lying. There was none. This fact made him more uneasy than if he had been lying, although perhaps that was just the remnants of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is in his soul. He didn’t allow himself to wonder if he still had one of those. 

“I-If I decide to stay, I can leave, find a-a-a new job if I want? I don’t have to keep working here?”

“Of course. You’re free to leave whenever you choose.”

“What’s the catch? Yesterday you were trying to get rid of me, and now you’re offering me my old job back? I- I don’t understand-”

“Technically speaking, you’re still an Institute employee, really, I’m offering you a new job, under the new Archivist.” His warm smile was a lie, but Michael wasn’t sure when he last saw a true smile on Elias. He wondered if he ever had. The thought was like ice in his veins. “So you’ll have to sign a new contract,” Elias continued, “we couldn’t very well have you still officially working under Gertrude now, could we?” He brandished what appeared to be the contract in question.

“But, why?”

“You could be useful here,” he said simply, “and they need all hands on deck if they’re going to stop the Unknowing. You do want to stop the Unknowing, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, of course.”

“Good, now sign here please and you can stay. Or don’t, but in that case, I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”

Michael took the contract and a pen from the desk and signed where Elias had indicated.

He braced himself for a weight to settle on his shoulders, for some monumental shift to occur, a feeling of wrongness, of _something_.

It didn’t.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Shelley. Do make sure to tell the others the good news.” And with that, Elias turned on his heel and left, just as Basira returned. He nodded, “Ms Hussain.” She glared after him and didn’t reply.

“What did he want?” she said, finally turning to face Michael.

“He… offered me my old job back. Or, well, a job. Here. Under your Archivist.”

Her expression turned cold. “And you said no, right? Michael? You turned him down.”

“It’s alright!” he hurried to reassure her, “He said I could leave whenever I wanted-”

“And you believed him?”

“He wasn’t lying, I- I know he was telling the truth. And he was telling the truth when he said he’d kick me out if I didn’t sign.”

Basira sighed. “Melanie won’t be happy.”

“Melanie won’t be happy about _what?_ ” came Melanie’s voice from the doorway.

“This idiot decided to come and work here,” Basira said, jabbing her thumb towards Michael, and not seeming at all surprised by her sudden appearance.

“I mean,” he began, “technically I never left, so it- it doesn’t make a difference? I just agreed to stay and now I’ll get paid and I can pay you back for the pizza, and you don’t have to worry about babysitting me, and I’ll be able to get my own flat and new clothe-”

Melanie cut off his rambling as she slammed the door behind her and walked straight back out of the Archives.

Neither of them saw her for the rest of the day, nor did Martin after he arrived and Basira filled him in on what had happened. Basira dumped a box of statements on the desk Michael had apparently commandeered, and he got to work on filing them properly. She had no idea what she was doing, so she wasn’t much help when it came to the filing system. He just did his best to sort out the real from the fake (it turned out they had shelves specifically for fake statements, which he saw as a vast improvement on Gertrude’s own system). It wasn’t until late that evening, when everyone had left and Michael was deciding whether or not he should order new clothes with Institute funds, that Melanie returned.

“Hi,” he said sheepishly.

She sighed and collapsed into her chair. “Hi yourself.” Neither of them said anything for a while, Michael didn’t look over at her. Finally she spoke again, “Fancy a Chinese?”

“Oh, uh- y-you don’t, don’t have to-”

“Whatever you say,” she rolled her eyes and stood up. “Are you coming?” She looked at him expectantly.

They wandered over to a Chinese takeaway a few streets away in silence. Michael gave her his order and waited outside like he had the night before, and once she came back out, they made their way back to the Institute.

“Wait there one sec,” she said as they reached the break room, and hurried off somewhere, leaving the food with him. He unpacked it while he waited, and she returned with a backpack he didn’t remember seeing before. “Picked up some stuff for you. To wear. You look a mess.”

“Oh, none taken,” Michael raised an eyebrow at her. The corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Thank you? You, uh, you shouldn’t have. Gone to all that trouble, I mean.”

“I didn’t,” she chucked over the bag, which he didn’t catch, and it landed on the floor, “well done. Some of it’s mine I don’t wear anymore, but most of it I nicked it off my friend. Do you know Georgie? From What the Ghost? Absolute pro at collecting stuff people leave at hers, I’m talking clothes, CDs, makeup, all sorts, she’s like a magpie.” Melanie’s face does something strange for a moment, “Anyway, lucky for you, Jon collected most of his stuff when he stayed with her before the whole ‘being kidnapped’ incident, so you don’t need to worry about bumping into him wearing his own clothes. Not that he’s ever here, and you’ve definitely got better taste than him anyway, so you’re probably safe either way.”

He rifled through the clothes as she spoke, and as she finished, he looked up and chewed his lip. “Thanks,” he choked out, and did his best to smile, while she slumped onto the couch opposite him.

“Go on then, I wasn’t joking when I said you looked a mess.”

Michael gave a surprised laugh at that, picked himself up and groaned as his joints protested.

He locked himself in the nearest bathroom and carefully took out some of the clothes. There were several tops and a couple of cosy jumpers that had been rolled up neatly and seemed as though they would fit him. He wasn’t quite so lucky on the trousers front, most of them being far too short for him, but there was a teal skirt in there that looked about long enough to reach his socks (there were also socks in the bag; he made a mental note to thank Georgie if he ever met her), so he got changed and headed back to the breakroom.

Melanie wolf whistled as he entered, “Give us a twirl then!” He snorted but spun on the spot, allowing for the skirt to swish slightly around him, and strode to his seat so he could feel it float behind him. “Suits you…” she said genuinely, and they tucked into their food in a comfortable-ish silence, but the events of the day hung heavy over their heads.

“Melanie?” Michael finally spoke up.

“Hm?” she said around a mouthful of rice and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hm,” she murmured, colder this time.

“I- I really didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. I have no idea how I’d get back on my feet after… after everything. I couldn’t exactly stay here and work another job until I got a place of my own and-” he began to grow gradually more frantic, “and you’ve all been so kind to me? I couldn’t keep taking advantage o-of…” he sighed, “of this. So I-I’m sorry for making you feel… like I didn’t listen to you, but- but Elias, h-he said I could leave if I wanted and I’m sure, I’m _sure_ he wasn’t lying. I- I can just… tell?” Michael trailed off and looked up at her weakly.

Then, after a long pause, she frowned but said quietly, “Okay.”

He looked at her as she stared down at her food. “You seemed angry before, I just didn’t want…” _Huh._ Michael mirrored her frown then. “You haven’t… come into contact with any, I don’t know, supernatural wartime relics, have you? Weapons, Leitners about battles o-or fighting? Heard music that- no, never mind, sorry, ignore me, I’m probably just-”

“What do you mean?” she interrupted, a strange bite to her voice.

“No, nothing, I’m just being paranoid, that’s all.”

“Michael, I swear to god, if you don’t tell me”-

“Honestly! I was probably just l-looking for something when it wasn’t there! I didn’t mean to offend! I-I-I was just- just worried, f-for a second, b-b-but-” Michael took a deep calming breath, closing his eyes, although he could still feel Melanie’s glare on him. “You have every right to be angry. It’s n-not my place to go… looking for a… a supernatural explanation… I’d be angry too, you deserve for your anger to be respected,” he finished softly, not making eye contact.

The rest of their meal was eaten in the same silence that filled most of the time they spent together. This was no more or less comfortable than it had been before, which Michael counted as a win.

“I’m not staying here tonight,” Melanie said calmly as Michael got up to clear their takeaway containers off the table. He nodded. The air was tense, as though she was gearing up to say something else, and stayed that way as he walked her to the entrance to the Institute, when eventually she added, “I am angry. It’s not at you. Well, it is a bit, but I- I was desperate too, when I came to work here, y’know, my company had basically collapsed, I had no money, no- no anything really.” She laughed coldly, “And I’d just been shot, so I really wasn’t in a great place. And then somehow everything got worse? But that’s not your fault. I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

“Oh. When were you shot?”

“February- you know, I really thought we were having a moment then, a bit of a heart to heart-”

“No- it’s just- sorry, no, I appreciate you… opening up?” he winced, “I-I just… Okay, how much do you know about what’s going on?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skirt!michael rights! i'm projecting my desire to wear long swooshy skirts onto michael, i love long swooshy skirts.
> 
> me, including what could generously be described as plot for five seconds: well that’s enough of that, time for some bonding!


	6. Spiralling, in the metaphorical sense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Are you tired of being nice? Don't you just wanna go apeshit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever keeps putting I can’t decide by the scissor sisters on Michael distortion playlists (the best type of playlist), how does it feel to galaxy brain so hard  
> this is probably my most heavily edited chapter so far too and I actually planned this chapter can you believe? we love tonal inconsistency
> 
> Content warning for panic attacks, lots of anger and an overall very bad time, you can skip to the --- if you don't fancy that.

She stared at him for a long moment and he swayed under her gaze. Was this a side effect of her serving the Eye? Or him? _Something was very unhappy with him for that._

“Nope! No, not doing this now, it can wait. This can wait until the morning, whatever it is, I’m going home, I’m having a long sleep, and ‘what’s going on’ will still be ‘going on’ tomorrow.” Michael opened his mouth. He was honestly inclined to agree with her, but she interrupted before he could say so, “Goodnight, Michael.”

He blinked. He was suddenly very aware of the pain in his head that he’d been firmly ignoring since he had spoken to Elias. “Goodnight, g- goodnight,” he called after her as she hurried down the steps. She raised a hand to wave without looking back.

Michael was exhausted. It washed over him all at once and he felt every long step he took back to the cot in document storage like his bones were lead and his muscles had given up on him. It was not a long walk between the door where he had left Melanie, and the cot he was in now- _Wait, when did he get here?_ -but part of him felt like he was still walking. Was he?

When he laid in bed and forced his eyes closed, he was painfully conscious of the blood in his veins in the way that you might be if your physical form had existed without need for it for several years, or if you hadn’t slept in all that time. The words ‘sleep is for the weak’ brushed past his mind and were familiar as though he had spoken them over and over. He could feel his eyes move behind his eyelids, dry and scratching, and so he opened them again.

The room was dark and his eyes stung from keeping them open, but they scraped like sandpaper when he blinked, so he did not blink. He knew this was his punishment for pushing away the Spiral. He knew he had been burying it deep in his subconscious without even noticing, until Elias tried to rip his mind apart all over again and let it out. All that was left when everyone else was gone, were the frayed ends of his mind and suddenly he was standing again. He couldn’t be quite sure where he had been planning to go, until the moment he wondered and knew he was trying to make a statement.

Oh.

He didn’t want to make a statement. He knew this. There was nothing he wanted to give to the Ceaseless Watcher. That’s hadn’t stopped him giving _himself_ now, had it? But he could feel that the Spiral would not release him so easily. Serving the Eye hadn’t stopped it last time. His legs were weak again, but now his whole body trembled, and he felt nauseous. Whether he was stuck in the Archives or not, the Spiral would not let him go. What if it wanted him back? Would he one day just walk through a door that wasn’t there and be that _thing_ again? His eyes darted to the door just in front of him, the one he’d almost walked through without a thought, and clutched his hands to his chest. He could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath his ribs and he stumbled backwards towards the cot, not taking his eyes off it. He collapsed into the bed, shuffling into it until his back hit the wall and he squeezed his eyes shut. Was this his life now? He couldn’t avoid opening doors forever. He probably couldn’t avoid opening a door for the next twelve hours. It was going to get him, and if It didn’t get him, then Elias would, o-o-or the Archivist or that hunter would decide he was too d-dangerous to let live, a-and if none- none of that happened, well, the Unknowing will end the world in a month or two anyway, and-

He gasped loudly and realised he hadn’t been breathing as he had begun to mutter to himself. Michael curled up tight on his side and dragged the thin blanket over his shoulders as he tried to calm his ragged breaths, but the anxiety did not abate, was just overtaken by a vicious anger, an anger that he was still afraid, that he still could not escape, that people he had once cared deeply about would betray him, lie to him, that after all the pain he’d been caused, they wouldn’t _let him go_.

Michael stormed over to the wall, he turned the light on and then surveyed the room. Walking purposefully across to the wall of shelves with boxes of documents stacked precariously on them, he opened the lid of one of the nearest which was full of false statements and dumped it on the floor. And then did the same again to the next box. The next after that was thrown with a little more force, and the next with such power that papers scattered around the room and he inhaled deeply. He yelled, flinging yet another box, this time not even bothering to check its contents, and as he did so, the jenga pile of loose documents and old tattered boxes toppled over, adding to the mess and chaos surrounding him. Soon there was little space on the ground to walk without treading on something and Michael continued to tear the papers from their files with all the strength he had, until, screaming, he hurled the last box so hard it hit the adjacent wall and dropped to the floor with an unsatisfying thud and a few statements spilled out weakly to join the rest.

He breathed heavily again, this time from exertion and even more exhausted, giving himself some minutes to catch his breath, but he knew he would not sleep now, so instead, Michael stared at the wreckage of his apparent home, and slowly began to pick up and sort the loose papers.

\---

It was, by Michael’s estimation, and given that he had no way of telling the time, quite a while before he next saw anyone else. Martin walked past his room without entering as he sat surrounded by three neatly filled and organised boxes containing statements from the early twentieth century (which while not technically lies, were not accounts of actual encounters with the Fears), and hundreds of pages of more statements and follow-up investigation that he had managed to jumble up rather badly. They weren’t scattered around the room anymore though, that was good.

Basira arrived about sixty pages later and popped her head around the door. “Morning- shit, Michael what did you do?”

Michael winced and gave a wobbly sort of half-shrug.

“Did you-” she frowned, “have you slept? At all? Because, no offence mate, you look like shit.”

He mumbled something that sounded something like, “Couldn’t sleep,”

“Listen, I’m not your mother, or Martin, it’s unbelievably _not my job_ to make sure you sleep and eat, so just do us all a favour and leave the late-night organisation for Jon, it’s kind of his whole thing. Speaking of which, did you hear him leave?”

“Uh… no? Should- should I have?”

“Well he was here when I left and he’s not now, so yes, probably.”

Michael’s eyes widened in horror.

“Does that face have anything to do with why you’re sitting on the floor surrounded by all this crap having clearly not slept, or are you realising that if he’s dead you’re the first suspect?”

He somehow managed to look even more horrified. “Oh god, now it is!”

“I’m kidding, he’s already been kidnapped a bunch of times, I doubt you’d even make the top three,” she said nonchalantly, checking her watch.

“… Martin’s already here, is he on your list?”

“Sure,” Basira chuckled, “you think he finally snapped? Murdered him for turning down his tea one too many times? I could see that…” She nodded, surveying the room, “Do you want a hand?”

“Oh! Yes- yes please,” he said, dragging one of the piles out of her way. “Do you know what time Melanie usually gets in?” Basira raised an eyebrow and he frowned back at her in confusion. “I, um- I think I offended her last night? I was wondering how much of all this you know about, and she- she just… left. She said it could wait until the morning, but she isn’t here yet. I-I-I’m not good at time, and I’ve also had all night to overthink, which isn’t helping, but you’re here, and, erm… do you think she’s okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sure she’s-”

“Oh, goodness, do you think she got sick of having to buy me food? I should go to the bank. It’s a good thing my passport won’t have expired. Wait, no, I took that with me through the door. And I don’t have an address, can-”

“We can sort that out later, and by we, I mean, ask Martin or something,” Basira said firmly, and Michael chewed the inside of his cheek.

They continued to work in silence after that for an amount of time that Michael didn’t manage to keep track of, until finally he heard Melanie’s distinctive, slightly uneven footsteps through the door (that he’d convinced Basira to leave open), which he surprised himself by recognising. He got up immediately to go and see her, calling out a greeting from the doorway.

“Right then,” she sighed, looking up at him, “I’m guessing you want that chat?” Michael smiled awkwardly. “Can we do it over breakfast?”

“Er, yes? If tha-that’s okay-”

“Oi! Basira?” she called across the Archives.

“Yeah?” Basira yelled back from where she sat in the storage room.

“Michael’s gonna tell us what’s going on, I know you’re fasting, but do you want to come with us for coffee?”

“What’s- hang on,” Michael watched as she extricated herself from the clutter and joined him in the doorway. “ _What’s_ going on? Also, I can’t have coffee.”

Melanie was sat at her desk and had kicked one foot up onto her desk, hugging the other leg in her chair. “Oh, yeah, I just meant cos this one-” she jabbed a thumb at Michael, “-can’t feed himself. Anyway, you know how he used to be all weird and evil or something?” Michael frowned, although there was no coolness in her voice, “And how everything here is weird and evil, and we’re trying to stop the world from becoming weird and evil?”

“… Sure,” Basira looked incredulous, but gestured for her to continue.

“Well, he’s gonna tell us why.”

“I more meant about you getting shot, but okay?” Michael said quietly.

“Honestly, getting shot by a ghost is nowhere near the weirdest thing that has happened to one of us-”

“You got shot by a ghost? When was this?” Basira cut in.

“February? It was just before I started working here, I was researching war ghosts in India.”

“Oh, so that’s what happened to your leg? Between you and Jon, I was beginning to think it was a requirement for the job,” she said lightly.

“-The Archivist didn’t have that until the flesh-hive-”

“-No, Jon got his from Jane Prentiss’ worms-” said Michael and Martin simultaneously, as the latter appeared from the stacks.

“Good morning, Martin,” said Michael.

“Morning,” he nodded back, “nice night?”

Michael froze. “No, not really,” he laughed uncomfortably.

“You’re invited too, if you want,” said Melanie, and then clarified, “Breakfast and Michael telling us what his whole deal is?” Michael fidgeted again but kept quiet.

“Uh, y-yeah, okay, that might be useful.” Martin frowned, “Shame Jon left already, but I guess we can fill him in when he gets back?”

She muttered something under her breath that might have been “ _If_ he comes back this time,” but Michael couldn’t be sure.

“And Tim?” Basira asked pointedly.

“Yeah, if anyone sees him, they can let him know too.” If Martin noticed the look she gave him, he ignored it, “Probably not Michael though,” he added, “sorry, it’s just last time he saw you… well, you know.”

They ended up back in the Archives after picking up coffee for Melanie, tea for Martin, and a breakfast sandwich and _just water thank you… actually can I get a salad too, please? I haven’t had a vegetable in eight years, I can feel my body shutting down- I’m not being dramatic- yes, well some of us aren’t in our twenties anymore and can’t survive on ‘technically pizza has tomatoes’_ for Michael.

“Erm, I’m not really sure where to start?” he said once they were all sat down.

“You said it was something to do with when I got shot?”

“Y-yes, well, you know about the Fears, the one the Distortion was a part of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is, and you,” he nodded to Martin, “encountered the flesh-hive, which was part of the Crawling Rot, and I believe that Melanie was marked by a manifestation of Bring Not Violence Unto Us,-”

“Of what?” said Melanie.

“One of the Fears, the Dread Powers, is an entity of pure violence and pain. I think it might have other names, but given the means by which _I_ learned about them, well…” He trailed off, “You, specifically were marked by the, I suppose, human side of this, not the pain caused by loss and natural disasters, that tends to be the- hm, the Blackened Earth, you might know it as the Lightless Flame? But the entity that marked you is the fear of violence you find in war, cold, bloodthirsty slaughter.”

“So I was, what, _marked_ by a ghost of an old British soldier? I don’t think I like that.”

“It’s not supposed to be _nice_ ,” he giggled automatically. Martin flinched. “It- I mean, I watched a friend get taken by another facet of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is when I was young, that’s why I came to work here, but it was really more of a coincidence that I ended up in its hallways. I wasn’t suited to it, not like how your- the Archivist is suited to the Ceaseless Watcher.” He looked curiously at Melanie. “I would be careful, if I were you, not to give in to the anger. I can imagine you’d be very good for it.”

Melanie’s face turned cold, “Is that a threat? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Watch it, Michael,” cautioned Basira.

“N-no, n-n-not-not at all, I-I-” he shrunk back, eyes darting over to Martin for support, but finding only fear. Oh. _They’re scared of you now. Look what you’ve done._ They’ll never trust him, and why should they? He hurt Martin, how could he ever look at him and not be reminded of what he did? There are statements about him, they know he hurt people. Michael saw fear in their eyes just like Jon, just like every other person he trapped and killed, and he tried to pretend that that wasn’t him, but that fear on their faces was not something he could bear. “Please don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

“Or what?” Melanie all but growled.

He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again. “I… I didn’t mean… It wasn’t meant- wait!” he said quickly as she started to stand up, “Melanie, please, I’m sorry, would- would you let me explain? Please?”

She shot him a disgusted look that he couldn’t stand to hold, his gaze fell away from her, but she sat back down. “Go on.”

Michael racked his brains for the best way to explain and rubbed his forehead. “These things, the Entities, they’re not good.” He sighed. “You don’t want to- to feed them; your anger, your fear, that’s what they take, and the more you give it, the deeper it drags you in until you are indistinguishable from it, it’s not something someone can just _do_ to you, there’s… an element of choice, to choose to fuel the anger, to lean into it, whether you mean to _give_ it, that doesn’t matter really, that’s why I-” he looked directly at her, finally, and as sincerely as he could manage, “I… don’t want that to happen to you.”

The three of them stared at him in silence before Martin spoke, “I thought you said Gertrude fed you to the doors or whatever, how come she didn’t become… like you?”

“She wasn’t the same as me, she was the Archivist already… I’m not sure she could have become anything else, especially not what I Became. The Distortion doesn’t serve It-Is-Not-What-It-Is, it is _part_ of it-”

“So you _aren’t_ an avatar?” interrupted Basira.

“A what?”

“A servant of these… things, Jon calls them avatars?”

“Oh. Well then no, I’m not.”

“… Is Jon?” asked Martin in a small voice.

Michael thought for a moment, squinting and nodding his head from side to side, “Not exactly… He serves the Eye and he feeds it like the previous Archivist did, and he’s much better at it than she ever was, but he isn’t… I suppose you could say he’s not finished.”

“Alright,” said Basira, “I have questions.”

Michael stared at her. He didn’t doubt that any of them had a list of things they’d like to have explained, but metaphors of the abstract can only get you so far when the Eye desires concrete answers.

“I’m not an encyclopaedia, I- I don’t know if I can answer your questions in a way that will satisfy you,” they all shot him looks to varying degrees of deeply unimpressed, and Melanie glared.

“Try.”

“I- the problem is, I never learnt about the Fears. Even after my Becoming, I just… suddenly was one. It’s not like Knowledge, more of an… Awareness. I was aware of the o-other powers in the same way you are aware of the room you are in. If you close your eyes, you can feel the air, how it moves and smells and sounds, and if there was someone in the room with you, you could tell by the way the air passes around them, not through them, you could tell by the smell of their perfume, or deodorant, or fabric softener, and the sounds of their breathing, that they exist in the same space as you. _You_ could just open your eyes and see that they are physically there, but the world doesn’t work the same for a- a _monster_ as it does for a human, so it’s hard for me to explain them to you like a human who has touched them, o-or observed them, tried to understand them, because that isn’t what I was for.

“M-maybe between us, with your practical knowledge and my erm… well, y-you know… perhaps I-I can contextualise your experiences?”

They seemed unconvinced, but not quite so visibly annoyed (or afraid?) as they had before. Still, with their combined years investigating the paranormal, once Basira had tentatively described a case she once worked on, it turned out the three of them could get a pretty good grasp on what exactly might have happened, and then the floodgates opened, with Martin and Basira interjecting with their own anecdote or question they’d never really considered they might have answered.

Melanie still stayed much quieter than the others, only really speaking when directly asked a question, and Michael tried his best to ignore the bubbling guilt that he felt every time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much more to get through in this chapter (which I actually planned for literally the first time in this fic, and still only got through one sentence of it) but it was getting real long. Just unbelievably long. and i had to get through the exposition because i could not cope with dragging it out further, i would die. it still took me like 8 days longer to finish than i expected.  
> hope you all enjoyed this chapter, please know that if you have left kudos or comments, you are wonderful and i love you, seriously, i get so unbelievably excited ^-^ <3  
> did you know the url @aromichaelshelley is free? well not any more! my sideblog is so much more powerful now i have the monarch of 'gender: maybe' as my icon


	7. Oversight, or a lack thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> featuring the london underground and other bad things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t going to apologise for how late this, but it’s been like a full two months so… sorry about that, uni has been A Bitch and Kicking My Ass and I used my october free time to write a rqg fic instead of this. also this was not where I was planning to end this chapter but I figured you’d waited long enough,  
> this chapter has taken so long that i was about to dye my hair green when i started it and it's faded so i'm about to do it again. and also also i have not edited this, so i have no idea if it's any good. that being said... enjoy?  
> CWs for questioning reality/dissociation, sleep deprivation (lots), the usual anxiety and bad feels

Michael walked towards Elias’ office with his freshly printed letter of resignation in hand. His hands that still felt wrong. It was hard to keep hold of just one piece of paper as he went, distracted by all of his thoughts. His fears. More than once, he would forget he was holding anything and feel it slip out of his grasp, its weight barely registering as his nerves built. He tried not to shake and ignored the eyes of his fellow assistants on him as they followed close behind.

What if he just walked in and handed it to Elias, and Elias just… let him leave?

Or what if… what if Elias had lied to him? Twisted the truth somehow and Michael just hadn’t realised? It had nearly been a comfort, for a few hours, maybe a day, when he could just know a lie when he heard it. Was that just a side effect of what he had been? Was it fading now, and soon he’d be just as helpless against those very lies as anyone else? Or was that small power never even there to begin with? One that he had deluded _himself_ into believing? And if he could lie to himself, what hope was there?

Michael found himself, nauseous, outside Elias’ door, and more than anything, did not want to knock. He blinked, and for half a moment, so fast he couldn’t be sure it was a trick of the light, or of his eyes, or his anxious mind, the door was wrong.

He was suddenly exhausted. He wanted to lie down, but he couldn’t. He had to do this. He owed it to everyone else stuck in the Archives to try— so he knocked.

“Come in, Michael,” came Elias’ voice. From somewhere, Michael found the energy to roll his eyes as he pushed the door open.

He was sat behind his desk, the same one that had always been there. The carpet was new, Michael noted, although not much else had changed since last he had seen the office. Michael didn’t speak.

“Is that for me?” Elias asked, one eyebrow raised the way he had always hated, and nodding at the letter. He could feel the amusement dripping off him.

“Yes.” He couldn’t lie.

“Well?” Michael said nothing. Elias knew exactly what was going on, better than any of the rest of them, so he just rubbed his thumb against the paper and kept his mouth shut. “Are you going to give it to me?” Elias asked brightly.

Michael sighed and walked out, and was met with the expectant faces of Basira, Martin and Melanie waiting for him. They looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and pity that made his skin crawl.

“Sorry, mate-”

“At least you tried-”

“Guess you’re stuck with us-”

Guilt churned in his stomach as they walked him back to the Archives, and worst of all, Melanie was actually looking at him for the first time since he’d tried to explain her bullet wound without hatred in her eyes. He kept replaying the moment he left Elias in his head, agonising, wondering if it could have gone differently. The anxiety of the whole ordeal hadn’t fully dissipated, even if his tiredness could be attributed to insomnia. It was hard to tell anymore what he was feeling, what he was in control of, how much of him was him, all he knew was that he could no longer trust his own mind.

He decided to keep to himself for the rest of the day, too exhausted to attempt to regulate himself around other people, and went back to organising the mess he’d made the night before. After some amount of time that he didn’t manage to keep track of, Basira popped her head around the door.

“Thought I’d let you know, Daisy just called, told me Jon’s gone off to China, apparently there’s another institute over there that Gertrude visited before she died? He thinks they might have some clues that will help us stop the Unknowing.”

“Oh. Oh! Okay, good? Did- did someone manage to tell him about- um, e-e-everything?” Michael’s mouth said somehow, although not quite as eloquently as it had been in his head.

“Not before he left without a word,” she replied, rolling her eyes, “but we can email him once he gets there.”

Michael nodded. Basira left. He kept filing. It was monotonous and repetitive and strangely soothing, in a way that could almost convince him he was asleep. Maybe he was. Surely he’d have noticed himself dozing off, but it had been so long since it had last happened, he didn’t really remember how it worked.

Someone was talking to him. It sort of seemed like he was talking back, although he wasn’t sure what it was that was coming out.

“Melanie?” he heard himself say, and realised that she was there too. Had she been there this whole time? She hummed in acknowledgement and he was sure he could see the air buzz with it. That didn’t seem right. “I can’t sleep?” It sounded like a question and he gave a nervous chuckle and wondered if he had any control over himself at all.

“Wh- It’s- Michael, it’s only ten past six.” This meant nothing to Michael. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was actually having a conversation right now though, so that was probably fine.

“I uh, I-I-I don’t- um… Right-” Then the room was suddenly very quiet. He could hear air rushing in his ears and was all at once far too conscious of himself. Michael blinked and his eyes stung, dry and _so_ tired and he blinked again to clear his vision, an outline of what he assumed to be Melanie swimming a few feet away. He blinked again and suddenly she was closer, only a couple of feet away. He didn’t have the energy to flinch.

“Michael?” She tilted her head and frowned down at him, and Michael squirmed under her scrutiny. “Can you- can you walk? I think we need to get you out of here.” She put her hand out but he just stared at it, his limbs felt like lead and it was all he could do to keep upright. Then he heard her call over her shoulder to Martin and he kept his gaze firmly on her leg in front of him; that didn’t feel good. He let his eyes glaze over and stopped thinking.

The next thing he knew, he was on the steps of the Institute, his limbs no longer leaden, just the pressure of two bodies at his sides holding him up, overbalancing slightly as he tried to redistribute his weight.

“Woahh,” came Martin’s voice, “you with us?” Michael just nodded. “Alright, can you stand on your own?”

Michael found he could stand, leaning as lightly as he could on Melanie, and Martin slowly let go of his arm.

“I’m taking you over to my flat,” explained Melanie bluntly, “It’s a bit of a way from here, but I have more space than Martin.” She paused for a moment for him to respond, or at least he thought that was why, but when he didn’t, she just said goodbye to Martin and they headed down the road together towards the tube station.

The station was busy and Melanie kept a hand on his arm most of the time. She handed him her Oyster card before they reached the gates and took it off him once they were both through. It reminded him of getting the train when he was little and not trusted to look after his own ticket on the journey. Then he realised he didn’t have any pockets. Then he realised that he must have looked a mess; no wonder they were getting strange looks from the other commuters. They must have made quite the odd pair to draw this much attention, which, granted, was not a lot, but more than your average strange person might during rush hour in London.

They had to change to the overground at some point, but Michael just let himself be led along, with distant recollection of these places, but he couldn’t think too hard, mostly because he was _painfully_ tired, but also because all of his attention had to be on Melanie and he couldn’t afford to get lost right now. It occurred to him that he hadn’t noticed her buy tickets, but he hadn’t noticed much, to be fair.

They arrived at Melanie’s flat, which he surprised himself by recognising that it was on the second floor of her building, and when they entered she directed him straight to the pull-out sofa.

“I think you should try and sleep now, mate,” she said to him once he was slumped on the unmade bed, and she was probably right because he didn’t have the energy to be self-conscious, much less to make the bed. “I’m going out, won’t be long. There’s not much food in but if you find something, you can eat it if you get peckish before I get back.”

Michael smiled at her, he knew that much, and she gave him a small smile back. He liked it when she wasn’t angry at him, he thought for a second, before a wave of guilt overcame him. _He didn’t deserve this._ He’d let her down and she’d been nothing but kind to him this whole time, even though he knew she didn’t want to. No one wanted to, but they were stuck with him now, Melanie’s earlier words echoing around in his brain, because of his terrible decisions. Because he signed that contract even though they told him not to. He should have listened. He- was startled out of his thoughts by the light turning off and the door clicking shut. _This bed was much more comfortable than the one in document storage,_ he thought, curling up automatically under the blankets she’d chucked over.

He didn’t sleep exactly, but the weight of the Eye wasn’t crushing here, the fear was weaker and lying still and warm, he felt almost human. Every time he closed his eyes he would feel the room spin so badly he could have cried, but he was too exhausted to get up, so he just stayed as still as he could until the sensation went away and tried to listen to his breaths. Moments later, or so it felt, he heard the door unlock and Melanie whispered a greeting before he could worry that it was anyone else, although to his surprise, she didn’t turn on the lights. She was surprisingly quiet too, and he found himself drifting again, not quite asleep, but still hearing the soft noises she made in the kitchen. Michael didn’t really notice time passing, but at some point he did feel something resembling well-rested. Or at the very least conscious and aware.

“Morning,” Melanie wasn’t a morning person it seemed, if her tone was anything to go by, and Michael found himself smiling a little as he looked up at her over the back of the sofa. “Sleep well, princess?”

Michael snorted, at least lucid enough to appreciate a joke, which was… nice. “No nightmares, actually,” he announced, and then looked at her more seriously, “I- thank you for letting me sleep here, I think I really needed to get out of the Archives for the night, honestly, I… I truly appreciate it.”

“I’m glad you seem much better than yesterday evening, a lot more with it,” she smiled. Then she frowned. “You’re not thinking of trying to sleep there again, are you?” He made some sort of noise that wasn’t quite words in response, but she continued, “Mike- Michael? Sorry do you go by-”

“Just Michael,”

“Ah right, sorry, um… I’m- this wasn’t just for one night, you know? You- Listen, you can stay here as long as you need, I’m not just going to kick you out when you’re in just the same boat as me. As all of us, I s’pose. And don’t take this the wrong way, mate, you were not in a good way yesterday; me and Martin, we couldn’t just leave you like that again.”

Michael blinked. “I-” his voice cracked and his throat felt tight. Melanie’s eyes went wide in… _fear?_ Oh no- she was scared of him again? He was desperate to reach out to her, but forced himself to back away, shuffling closer to the foot of the bed. And then she frowned again but everything was too blurry to see her properly, which he realised a moment later was because of the tears obscuring his vision as he blinked again and they fell.

“H-Hey, are you alright?” she said, sounding almost concerned. For him? “Oh god, I didn’t mean- please don’t tell Basira I made you cry again, she’ll never let me live it down.”

He swiped the tears from his face to get a better look at her. “What?”

“I mean, that one time when you first got here was bad enough, but now you’re in my home and I’m really not good at-” she waved her hand between them, “-this.”

“…What?” he said again, squinting up at her.

“Comforting people? I- heh, I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do.”

It took him a moment to process her words, but once he had- “Oh, you don’t have to do that, I- y-you shouldn’t have to- to comfort me? I scared you, I- I didn’t mean to, I don’t ever want anyone to be scared of me-”

“What are you-? You didn’t- You thought I was scared of you?” It couldn’t be said that Melanie’s face softened, exactly, but her mouth twitched a little, which was almost the same. And it did sort of put Michael at ease in a strange way, so he shrugged slightly. “Mate, you’ll have to do better than that to scare me.” She smiled in earnest now, if a little awkwardly, “I was shot by a ghost you know?” He giggled at that, despite himself. Melanie took a deep breath. “Right, are you a breakfast person? I’ve got toast if you want it. Or a pot noodle, I guess?”

“Uh-” Michael’s mind was going far too slowly to process what was happening, but somehow he asked, “What are you having?”

“Coffee,” she deadpanned. Then she smirked and he smiled back. _This is nice,_ was the thought that came to him from seemingly nowhere, but he realised it was true.

Michael ended up having toast and a hot shower which really did him a lot of good. So did the clean clothes that Melanie had found for him, and so did her company. He told her so and she looked at him like he was crazy, but this time it was okay. Like they were friends.

“So,” she said to him as they stood on the train station platform, “are you going to tell me what happened to document storage?”

He looked down awkwardly at his hands which he was wringing, “I- um… I’m sorry, I- Everything just sort of… I don’t know. Th-that’s no excuse of course, I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that I just-”

“You were angry?” Melanie interrupted.

“A-Among other things…?”

She looked up at him, “I get that…” and grinned. “Next time you wanna trash the place, though, let me know, yeah? I’d be very happy to join.”

Michael opened and closed his mouth and ended up just staring at her. He opened his mouth again when their train arrived. Once they were on board, he tried again, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Melanie.” She rolled her eyes, but he continued, lowering his voice, “I mean it, you- you’re marked by an entity of anger and violence. It might be tempting to give into it, but you don’t know what would happen to you if you let it consume you-”

-Something changed in her eyes.

 _“Where the fuck do you get off?”_ she whispered harshly, “ _Stop_ acting like you know what’s best for me, you’ve known me three days- you _don’t_ know me and we’re not friends!” She laughed coldly. “God, I let you stay at my flat and you still feel the need to lecture me! I’m fine! I’m literally a prisoner at this shitty job, of course I’m angry, but if you’d known me for more than five minutes, you’d know that’s not fucking new. Some people just have shitty lives to begin with!” He watched in silence as she took a deep breath. “I was angry long before I went to India, mate, not everything’s supernatural.”

Michael felt as though all the energy had been drained out of him. Again. They stood in silence for the rest of the journey, and Michael chewed his lip while the changed trains, heart thudding, and keeping his eyes trained on Melanie until he was sure he wouldn’t lose her in the crowds. She didn’t seem to care so much about that though, and crammed into the tube car uncomfortably close, neither had anything to say to the other. At least nothing that could easily be said in the position they were in, as much as Michael tried to search for the right words. The entire journey was the same as yesterday, but each interaction they shared was burning cold, not the careful, tired warmth she had had for him the night before.

He stopped her outside the Institute as they reached the entrance. “M-Melanie, wait.” She turned to him and he didn’t meet her eyes. “I didn’t mean-” he sighed and looked at her a few stairs above him, “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She stared for a second, then turned away and walked through the doors.

Michael followed her after a moment, but he didn’t try and speak to her again. After time away from the archives and something at least resembling sleep, he had felt almost rested for a while. He didn’t anymore. The oppressive weight of It Watches You on him again and the fluorescent lights of the dingy archives gave him a headache almost instantly as he holed up in document storage once again.

He was briefly thankful for how little oversight he was given, at least compared to his time under Gertrude, and then almost laughed as he marvelled at his astoundingly poor word choice.

It was Martin who ended up offering to buy him lunch (Michael wondered how long he’d had to be in the south before he stopped calling it ‘dinner’, so he asked; it turned out he’d always used them interchangeably) and they dragged themselves to a Sainsbury’s to pick up some sandwiches. It was nice of Martin not to just let him starve since Melanie seemed to want nothing to do with him after he had felt the need to lecture her on their commute. Which was fair…

They were just leaving the supermarket when Michael decided to bring up that morning.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, she’s horrible to everyone,” said Martin, “I mean, I get that she doesn’t want to be trapped here, but it’s not like this is fun for any of the rest of us… I wouldn’t mind if she stopped trying to get us all killed though.” He rolled his eyes.

“H-How do you mean?”

“You know, the whole ‘Elias dies, we die’ deal he’s got going on?” Michael nodded. “She’s been trying to kill him. At least once by my count, but who knows if she’s managed to sneak any attempts past us.” Michael just stared, wide-eyed. “Elias can probably just use his creepy eye powers to know when she’s about to try something, but I don’t want him to take it out on us, you know?”

“I- I suppose-”

“I mean, if you can convince her to give a rest, then by all means. She’s only going to get herself hurt, if not the rest of us— We know what Elias is capable of.”

Michael frowned.

He got to spend the rest of the day in document storage, and his worry about Melanie only increased. He didn’t really register the clock pass 5pm without Melanie coming to collect him, mostly because once he’d eaten his lunch his mind had wandered far away and he forced his mind back to the task at hand, namely clearing up his own mess. He could tell objectively that he was too tired to concentrate around the fourth time this happened, but he didn’t exactly feel the fatigue. He did laugh to himself again about the word ‘oversight’, which he admitted didn’t make him seem particularly sane either, and that at least made sense because he didn’t really feel it at that point.

“Oh! You’re still here,” he heard Basira’s voice from around one of the shelves.

“Hm? Oh… Yes?” He craned his neck to see her from his position on the floor.

“Did you not want a chair?” she asked. He shrugged. “Anyway, what I meant was, why are you still here?”

Michael’s heart sank. “… Melanie left already?” he said in a small voice.

“What? No, she’s out there- oh, are you waiting for her? She’s been in a piss-poor mood all day you know. I’m assuming you have something to do with that.” She raised her eyebrow at him.

He gave a sort-of half-shrug nod without looking at her. He did look up when he heard her retreat out of the room and sighed, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his head on them. Unbidden, an image of Melanie walking into Elias’ office came to him, she was holding a kitchen knife and an expression of pure icy rage, and Elias seemed… amused? He tried to push the thought aside, but he couldn’t, worse, he could _feel_ Melanie’s fear seeping through him, her anger too, but underneath it all she was just as scared as he was, her anger tinged and mingled with it, woven so tightly that it _hurt_ to try and work out where one ended and another began and-

Elias.

Michael snapped his eyes open to find himself kneeling, his head on the ground and hands clutching fistfuls of his hair. Not for the first time that day, he blinked back tears and wondered again when time had started. With immense effort, he pulled his head up, unfolding his spine and his fingers and his legs and pushed himself off the floor and towards the door back into the archives.

“Melanie?” he called as he opened the door, although scarcely a sound came out.

“Fuck, Michael- what have you done now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, i realised that The Vibes this has are because i almost exclusively write after 2am, so like. Hope you like it bc it’s not gonna change any time soon,, actual question, is this hard to follow? Sometimes things that make sense to your brain at 3am are not intelligible to regular humans idk
> 
> biggest of thank yous to [Siarven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siarven/pseuds/Siarven) and Helena for being lovely and wonderful and for the encouragement and most of all, for having the goodest of vibes,, ily :D


	8. How would a Melanie describe itself, if asked?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melanie's POV in the weeks following Michael's arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s aspec archives week! so I had to get this chapter out, for my lovely aro boy (though sadly not doing aro things), didn’t think I’d manage this little deadline, but I’ve made the decision to differ this year of uni so I had some time on my hands for the first time in 4 months. anyway, thank you all for your patience with this, and your lovely comments and kudos, it's now the longest chapter of this fic by a whole thousand words! maybe I’ll even update more regularly from now on? i hope? :))

Melanie didn’t know why, but speaking to Michael she got the feeling he wouldn’t be around long. Maybe that was her self-destructive tendencies, or just precedent, but what’s the point in getting attached? Her phone sat deep in her jacket pocket, mostly there out of habit at this point. Not like she really had anyone to speak to. To stalk on Facebook. Not after her _very_ public breakdown. Even she knew that was a waste of time. It made her feel like shit and she really didn’t need help with that.

She liked him, she realised one day. He was clearly going through something, but he was… nice to be around. He didn’t have walls like she did. He was an open book; she could tell what he was thinking just by looking at him. Recently, she found overly emotional people tiring, but at the very least he was a decent distraction, and if she was honest with herself, he was a good one. That was a dangerous thought. There was something very wrong with him and she had a feeling even he didn’t know what that thing was. This… wasn’t a safe place to be, she couldn’t imagine anything that was going on would end well for any of them, especially Michael, who was showing it the most obviously out of any of them.

He was condescending. He acted like he knew better than her, but he couldn’t even sort out his own problems, why the hell would she trust him to fix any of hers? He was high maintenance, she got weird looks when she went anywhere with him, even now they’d gone to get his bank account sorted and he could buy his own food, he-

She sighed to herself. She couldn’t hate him. She couldn’t even dislike him. Usually at this point she’d just avoid him, but it seemed like any time she took her eyes off him for more than a second, he’d end up having a breakdown or _something_. She thought about seeing him walk out of document storage, barely upright, his skin almost grey, eyes wide and hollow.

07/06/17

“Fuck, Michael- what have you done now?” How was she supposed to be mad at him when he looked… like this? Well she could at least be angry he wasn’t letting her be angry.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times but only a choked sound came out. Melanie wondered at that point whether she was supposed to be experiencing some sort of nurturing instinct. She’d seen people, when confronted with a person in distress, flip a switch and know exactly how to help them. Melanie King was not that sort of person, it seemed. 

“Okay, just- sit down here,” she said, guiding him to the floor, her hands hovering over his arms, “and try and, um, breathe?”

Michael shook his head and looked her directly in the eye. “Don’t-” he rasped, “Elias…”

Anger bubbled up inside her, “Elias? What’s he done now, I swear-” She looked over her shoulder and began to back away, but that was met with an expression of panic. She stared in anticipation as Michael squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, she was pinned with an intense look, entirely unlike that of Elias, or even Jon. It still didn’t feel exactly human, and it was just as deliberate as any Elias had given her, and probably even more so than Jon. It scared her just the same, his dark eyes colder than she had ever seen in him “Michael?” she said, just as quietly as he had called her name across the archives when he came out of the door.

“You tried to kill him.” It wasn’t a question. _Oh no._

“Yeah, course I did. Twice, in fact,” she said casually, with much more confidence than she felt. And she knew he could tell. “Tried to poison his coffee, then I tried to stab him. Jon got in the way that time… Why? Fancied giving me a hand?” She couldn’t help the bitterness that crept into her voice at that. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to antagonise him, but when had that stopped her before?

“Don’t try again.”

“Did Martin put you up to this? O-of course he fucking did, he needs to learn to mind his own bloody business.” Her leg had been playing up all afternoon, and it had throbbed as she knelt beside him, but it felt better now. It felt good.

“N-No, he’ll hurt you, he- he showed me, I saw you with the knife- I felt it,” Michael’s voice was still raw and cracking, as though every word took immense effort, and tapped a bony finger to his temple. “He put it there.”

That stopped her dead in her tracks. “What?”

“Just now, I w-watched you go to his office with a knife and you were scared and I _felt it_.”

“That was days ago, how-”

“Beholding likes to show you how badly it will hurt,” he answered. He almost looked surprised as he said it, as if he hadn’t really known until that moment. And it was at that moment, Melanie realised that the coldness in his eyes was not directed at her.

And yet, she just couldn’t back down, it seemed, couldn’t let it go, “I don’t need your protection, or your fucking pity. It didn’t work, alright? What do you want? Hm? For me to promise not to do it again?”

“Yes!” he said, desperation creeping into his voice, “I don’t want him to hurt you, I don’t want you to give him an excuse, I-I-I can’t- he- he murdered his last _archivist_ and she had prevented countless rituals, what exactly is stopping him from doing the same to you? We’re entirely replaceable.” He hung his head, looking as though all the energy had been sapped from him.

Some childish part of her wanted to yell at him, to tell him that he couldn’t tell her what to do, he couldn’t make her do anything and he couldn’t stop her either. The phrase ‘you’re not my dad’ came mind, which she dismissed quickly, as she regarded him. He looked particularly pathetic, crumpled on the ground there, but she surprised herself wondering what he’d been like before all this. They hadn’t really talked in the few days they’d known eachother. She knew he didn’t have anyone else, like the rest of them, but besides the breakdowns he was having near daily, he seemed pretty well adjusted. Strangely normal. He might have even been a functioning member of society until whatever happened to him. Maybe he’d had friends he knew outside of work and they had dinner parties and invited eachother to their weddings and kids’ baptisms, or he attended book clubs and went to school reunions and didn’t hate every second making small talk with people he’d chosen to forget about the moment he left, and maybe he collected stamps or had a secret addiction to daytime telly…

“Alright then,” Melanie said eventually, and wondered how she of all people had ended up caring about him, “let’s go.”

He did seem to liven up a little once they left and she was glad to see she didn’t need to keep such a close eye on him as they made their way back to her flat this time.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” she muttered, not entirely reluctantly when they got to the station.

Michael looked down at her. “Yeah… Yes, me too I suppose. You too though, I’m sorry you ended up here.” He smiled. She tried not to laugh too coldly at that.

Melanie clapped her hands. “Right. That’s enough of that sappiness, I know it’s technically only Thursday tomorrow but d’you think we could go to the bank?”

09/06/17

“Lunch is on Michael, everyone!” Melanie announced as they got into the archives. Unfortunately, this did not have the desired effect because apparently only Basira was in this morning, despite them arriving an hour late.

“It’s a bit early for that isn’t it?” she said raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, whatever,” Melanie waved her off, “point is, I mean, it’s Friday, you could invite Daisy to drinks after work? Who knows, Tim might even show up if he knows there’s a free drink in it for him.”

“Oh, I’m buying drinks now, am I?”

“Mate, I’ve been feeding you all week, you’re the one who insisted on paying me back.”

“And you often buy the first round of drinks?”

“Never,” Basira cut in before she could respond, and she muttered coldly under her breath, but she felt the barest hint of a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. _What? Really, Melanie?_ Had the addition of another person in the archives somehow made it more tolerable? Maybe she was getting ill. She surreptitiously raised a hand to her forehead, but she didn’t seem to have a temperature. Her leg twinged though, and she tried not to limp too severely over to her desk to sit down.

“I hate all of you,” she said as she dropped heavily into her chair, but Michael smiled. She rolled her eyes. “What are we up to today then?”

Basira wordlessly held up a heavy looking book as Michael answered, “I was actually wondering if you needed help with anything?”

“I’ve got a stack of statements to go through and see if any of them are real, if you fancy.” She scooted her chair over to the nearest wall and dragged a couple of boxes back to her desk.

“Okay, how do you do that?”

“Just read a few lines aloud and see if they record digitally. If they do, chuck ‘em in here,” she said, gesturing to a box half-full of paper labelled ‘BIN’, and if they do, stick them on Jon’s desk for later. Got it? You can use the voice recorder app on my phone, that should work.” She handed him one box, her phone, and the password scribbled on a post-it.

There was something nice about having someone else to record with, not just listening to the sound of your own voice for hours at a time, but Michael also proved useful in that he could apparently distinguish immediately between statements that the subject had believed to be true, and those that were made up by time wasters, which cut down the amount of time it took to get through the statements significantly, and they had got through both boxes in only half an hour. No real ones yet, but at this rate, they were bound to find one by the end of the day. He also knew Gertrude’s old filing system better than anyone, which meant they could refile them much faster too (giving Melanie a moment to email Elias with Michael’s new bank details and a little smiley face, which she hoped conveyed a sufficiently threatening aura).

Given that they’d managed to get twice as much work done as usual, she was inclined to leave early for lunch and not come back, and she could tell that being in the archives made Michael especially antsy, but that was exactly the problem; was it weird to just go home with Michael in the middle of the day? She could always leave him there, but she knew he’d probably end up freaking out and she’d only have to come and pick him up unless she could justify to herself leaving him here for the whole weekend after what happened last time he spent the night alone in document storage. How had she ended up here?

She asked Michael the same when they went out for their lunch break (only a little bit early).

“Here at the institute the first time? Or now?”

“The first time, I suppose. What _drew you to the supernatural?_ ”

“I got some work experience here when I was straight out of school and James Wright- the old head of the institute before Elias- just kept me on. I um, I lost a friend to something a few years before. Maybe he thought I’d be useful…”

“D’you reckon he knew?” she asked over her coffee.

“Wright? Yeah, probably. He was like Elias like that.”

“A creep?”

Michael snorted. “Yeah. Well, no, not exactly? Elias wasn’t always like that,” he said with a strange look on his face, and she wasn’t going to let that one go in a hurry.

“Oh? Some juicy Elias gossip?”

“He was a piece of work,” he said, not unkindly, in fact if Melanie didn’t know better, she might have called it fond, “I mean he was smart, a lot more than people gave him credit for, but he- he changed a few m-months before Wright retired. He wouldn’t talk about it and then suddenly he was running the whole place. He had problems when we first met, I- I was desperate for it to have been… supernatural, you know? It was easier than the th-thought my friend would just do that to me. That he’d always been like that and I couldn’t tell. I suppose I never was the best judge of character,” he laughed coldly.

“Sorry.” She chewed the inside of her lip. “That was shitty of him, you didn’t deserve that, it’s not your fault he’s a creep or a dick or that he had _‘problems’_ , that’s no excuse. You’re too nice. I mean, look at me, I’m an arsehole. I thought it was like, a requirement to work here.” That got a small chuckle out of him, which she counted as a win.

“You’ve put me up, a stranger, practically off the street, I think you could give yourself a little more credit, Melanie.” Maybe she really was coming down with something, because her first thought wasn’t a snarky comment about him being a poor judge of character, and she knew he didn’t know her, and he was probably just being nice, and she was probably just missing her dad, but it didn’t stop the warm feeling that spread through her.

14/06/17

It had been a weird couple of weeks for Melanie. To be honest, the appearance of a tall blond person in Jon’s office had hardly even registered at first, what with Jon himself turning up looking _like that_ , and then the small matter of her unsuccessful attempt at assassinating Elias. She’d need to be more subtle with her next attempt; the last one was purely on a whim, which she had hoped might work in her favour if he was reading her mind, but it seemed like waltzing up to his office with a borrowed kitchen knife was not the way to go. So: subtle. It wasn’t exactly something she was known for, but if she was going to escape, she’d have to get creative, and _that_ she could do…

Admittedly, she wasn’t really in the best environment to nurture her creativity; her first idea, a fun concoction of paracetamol and ibuprofen in his coffee wasn’t exactly inspired, but she couldn’t very well ask someone for help, could she? They’d only try to stop her, if they didn’t tip off Elias first.

Basira was antisocial, Tim was mean when he bothered to show up at all, and Martin was even ruder, not that she was really one to talk. Michael, at least, seemed sweet, if a little weird, but they all had their quirks, she supposed. The point was, he’d probably draw the line at murdering his boss, even if he was quite possibly the worst boss in the world.

The first time she’d spoken to Michael, she’d made him cry. Which she hated. Not because it was a sign of weakness, just because every time she made someone cry, she’d either get dirty looks or be expected to comfort them. Dirty looks she could handle, she’d had enough practice over the years, no point denying it. Comfort was not in her repertoire. But somehow with Michael, he didn’t seem to mind. And Michael was weird, sure, but he wasn’t _bad_ , she couldn’t really work out what people had against him. She wasn’t quite sure if Michael was aware how weird he was, or how much of that was left over from the Spiral and how much he’d just had all along, but they had their own little routine worked out now. And maybe she even liked it.

“Oh!” Melanie heard softly from the desk next to her, breaking from the muttering of a statement she’s been testing. The uncomfortable whine and crackle of static that she knew all too well playing out from the tinny speakers of her phone in Michael’s hand.

“You got one?” asked Basira, turning her chair around to look at him at the same time as Melanie looked up.

“Erm, y-yes? Not an Unknowing one, but um, yeah.” He was pale and picking unconsciously at the skin around his nails, but took a deep breath, steeling himself. “W-What- what do I do now?”

“Give it here,” Basira answered, “Martin and I can do some follow up if you like, and then one of us’ll record it.”

Michael’s gaze flicked over to Melanie for a moment, and she wasn’t sure what was showing on her face, but he must have seen what he needed, because he cracked a smile and stood to hand the file over to Basira. “Great, th-thank you. I can get to filing those for you instead?” he gestured to the boxes on their desks, “U-unless you still need them?”

“No, that’s fine,” Basira passed the box on her desk over to him. Melanie had to hide a smile as he visibly strained to lift it from her with his skinny little noodle arms. Not quick enough, it seemed as Michael whipped around to frown at her, but he didn’t say anything. He hauled the box with him as he vanished into the stacks and got back to skimming through statements about evil clowns, cursing the idiots who’d decided it would be funny to dress up like them last year. At one point she thought she heard a loud clatter of boxes from Jon’s office where Martin was recording a statement, but she had her headphones on and it was Not Her Problem, and not long after, Michael returned at- okay not quite lunch time, but near enough she decided. They might miss some of the rush if they headed out now, at least. They were just leaving when Elias walked in. Melanie rolled her eyes as he made his way towards the office, poking his head in, and moments later, Martin walked out looking visibly shaken, but Elias didn’t follow him.

“What’s he up to in there?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Tim’s in there.”

“Are you joking?” Martin just looked at her. “Okay, sorry, but- I mean, he’s not been seen in, what, a month? What did he want?”

“Dunno. He made a statement though.” That explained the glassy look in Martin’s eyes at least.

“Is he alright?” Michael piped up. Martin jumped, clearly having forgotten that he was there, and then he seemed to come back to himself slightly.

“You should leave before Tim comes out. He won’t- you should go.”

“Yeah, Martin’s right,” Melanie said to Michael before turning to back to Martin, “I’ll do the next statement if you want?”

“O-Oh! Thanks! Yeah, thanks, Melanie, I- I really appreciate that, that’s really nice of y-”

“Yeah, alright, you owe me one or whatever,” she rolled her eyes again, but there wasn’t any of the same malice this time. She pushed herself off from where she was leaning against her desk, “Come on, Michael.”

19/06/17

Melanie was ready to leave her flat early on Monday. Well, technically on time, since she had taken to arriving late recently, and Michael seemed to enjoy a lie in as much as she did and never put up much of a fight. But Elias wanted to see her, and as much as she hated him, and as much as she would never admit it, she’d been flooded with anxiety as soon as she found out on Friday evening, leaving her in a foul mood and thoroughly ruining the entire weekend, as she was sure was his goal.

“Just that Elias wants to see you? Nothing else?” Michael asked when she finally told him, after two days of him politely ignoring her unpleasantness. He’d asked her what was wrong straight away on Friday, but she told him to leave it, and he had. But she knew she’d have to come up with some excuse as to why she would be out of the archives for some time in the afternoon and he tended to get a little twitchy when she lied to him.

“That’s what Martin said in the email- here, you can read it if you like,” she said holding out her phone.

“Oh, I uh, I can’t- can’t read that.” She stared at him. “I’m- I think it might be a side effect of-” he waved his hands about as if he hadn’t even been planning to complete the sentence, just gesturing vaguely at himself like he sometimes did, but as he looked around something changed in his expression, “-the Institute? It’s hard to read when I’m not there.”

“Oh. Right. That’s weird?” _Yes, it_ was _weird, that’s right, Melanie, good investigative work there._ She was tired, alright? It was too early; she couldn’t be expected to have intelligent conversation at this ridiculous hour.

He shrugged. “I don’t think you should go, Melanie. I-I-I mean, you c-can, I won’t prevent you from going, but I just don’t- don’t think it’s a good idea…”

“And why is that, _Michael?_ ” she spat back.

“I don’t see why you need an excuse to _not_ be in a room alone with a m-murderer who has reason to hurt you?”

“He’s my boss? And besides, maybe I can convince him to let us go,” forcing some lightness into her tone. Why, exactly, she couldn’t be sure. She didn’t even want to see Elias! But some petty stubbornness arose whenever she was told not to do something, and she was tired and Michael was an easy target and some dark part of her, barely hidden below the surface was desperate to know how far she could push him. Still, she didn’t think about who exactly she was referring to when she said ‘us’.

He gave her a reluctant half-smile, “I know I can’t stop you, but I’d like to go with you if that’s alright?”

“I don’t need a babysi-”

“No, no! No, I- could you just let me wait outside for you? For my peace of mind? Eve-even by the lift if that would be better? I’m just- well you know,” he gave a wry smile, “a-and you did the same for me, it’s really the l-least I could do.”

“Oh, I know. Old,” she said, ignoring the last part of his statement and rolling her eyes. “When did you say you were born again, 1950? How was, I don’t know, prohibition? Rationing? Cos it sounds kind of boring, mate.”

“How does it feel to be younger than the Rugrats?” he quipped back instantly. Melanie faltered for a moment. She hadn’t expected that.

“Oh, you are going to regret that,” she smirked, flicking her coffee spoon at him. “Do you have a fucking list of things that happened before I was born? That’s very sad, Michael.” She aimed a pseudo-sympathetic expression at him. He laughed. She barely felt the dull ache in her leg returning.

“No, I simply remember things that happened in my lifetime because I was an adult with the ability to recall when events occurred,” Michael grinned. He looked so pleased with himself and she couldn’t quite work out what to make of it all.

“So sad,” she repeated, ignoring him and draining her cup of the last of the coffee. “Right then. Are we off?”

“If we must,” he said, sighing exaggeratedly as he stood up.

It took them longer to reach the institute than it usually did due to the rush hour traffic, and even though the crush of commuters was the same as it was in the evenings (technically even better without the day’s sweat and grime), she’d got out of the habit of being surrounded like this first thing in the morning, although Michael’s, well, weirdness wasn’t anything she could quantify, but even dressed like a relatively normal – abeit very tall – man(?), people seemed to unconsciously give him, and by extension Melanie, a slightly wider berth.

Basira arrived shortly after them with an armful of new books and settled into her chair, opening one to near the start. Melanie bounced her leg and ran her hands through her hair and checked the time. Could she ignore Elias’ request? Pretend she hadn’t seen the email, or that Martin hadn’t told her? He’d know she was lying, surely, but what could he do to her? Fire her? She looked up and saw Michael staring at her.

“What,” she snapped, “don’t look at me like that.”

“Sorry.” He went back to writing something, although she was sure it was just scribbles to make it look like he was working.

The minutes dragged by until they didn’t, and after not enough time had passed at all, Michael cleared his throat.

“Yes, I’m still going,” Melanie bit out, slamming her laptop shut and pushing her chair back. The momentum her anger afforded her got her to the lift, but as the doors closed behind her and Michael, it all left her. She leaned so she could see his reflection in the mirror on the wall. It looked very normal. She’d listened to Sasha’s statement about him, or what he used to be, she supposed, and how he had looked different through the warped glass, and wondered if that’s what _he_ saw when he looked in the mirror.

The lift doors slid open and saw a chair against the opposite wall that she could have sworn hadn’t been there before, but Michael sat down in it and gave her an encouraging smile. She rolled her eyes.

“You don’t have to wait for me, you know,” she told him, “you could make yourself useful and make us coffee.”

He just shook his head. “I’ll buy you one when you’re done. M-My treat.” His voice didn’t pitch up at the end, it wasn’t a question, but she could tell it had been a struggle. He was painfully easy to read, and she almost felt bad rolling her eyes at him.

The feeling didn’t last long though, once she’d limped to Elias’ door and knocked.

“Come in, Melanie.” Melanie flinched as she pushed it open. She knew he knew it was her, but it wasn’t any less creepy.

“Martin said you wanted to see me?” she said, closing the door behind her

“Yes, please come in. I thought it was about time for your first performance review,” Elias was smiling his horrible bland smile and she suppressed a shiver as she sat down in a seat opposite him which was ever so slightly too low.

Really, she should have known. Should have never gone in there in the first place. Should have just walked back out. And when he was finally finished, she was almost numb enough that she did. He kept talking, though.

“That’s alright. Take your time. Tell you what, why don’t you and Michael go and get that coffee, hm? I’m sure you have a lot to process.” He leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, aside from all of that, I’d say your performance has been satisfactory.”

And then her phone buzzed. Pulling it out of her pocket, her screen lit up with a message.

**Michael S:** 'Good luck. Take care :)'

At that she felt an unexpected wave of… something? Whatever it was, it hurt, and she'd usually push it away, let fury fill the aching pit, but try as she might to dredge it up, to scowl, to yell, to scream in anger, like she always did when she refused to let someone upset her, it was like sand, it kept slipping away, leaving only fear and pain and something like an empty sadness that she didn't want to look to closely at, lest it swallow her whole.

‘Take care’ was a blunt knife and she held it tight as she walked out of the office, a bitter laugh pushing its way from her throat still damp with tears, and slammed the door shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually have the barest bones of a sort of plan for this now! after like a full 6 months of writing, i've finally gone and thought about where i want this to go! i am however truly sorry for the profound lack of comfort at the end of this chapter, but fingers crossed it wont be another two months between updates <3
> 
> wrote a lot of this while listening to little clone baby on repeat, ben meredith is the only bitch in this house I respect, I would kill for that man.  
> anyway, hot takes hours, melanie is the baby of the archives she was born in the 90s.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, pink hair martin rights babeyyy ;*
> 
> (my tumblr is @big-urchin-energy, feel free to message me for a chat or to pester me for updates)


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